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WAR  DAYS  IN  BRITTANY 

By  ELSIE  DEMING  JARVES 


Private  Edition^ 

This  is  No.  ^/^/, 
of  a  limited  edition  printed 
for  private  circulation. 

The  Author. 


Mks.  Deming  Jakves 
Officier  <Je  1 'Academic 


MEDAL  OF  THE  RECONNAISSANCE 
FRANCAISE 

By  decree  of  the  President  of  the  Republic,  the 
silver  medal  of  the  Reconnaissance  Francaise  was 
conferred  on  Mrs.  Elsie  Deming  Jarves  for  the  devo- 
tion she  showed  since  the  beginning  of  the  war  to  our 
wounded. 

The  Citation  reads  as  follows: 

"Mrs.  Deming  Jarves,  since  the  beginning  of  the 
war,  showed  the  most  generous  solicitude  for  our 
wounded  soldiers  in  Brittany,  has  never  spared  her- 
self and  has  shown  the  greatest  devotion." 

As  announced  elsewhere,  Mr.  Deming  Jarves  was 
made  a  Chevalier  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  for  the  same 
cause. 

The  above  article  is  reprinted  from  "Le  Nouvelliste  db 

Bretagne,"  a  French  daily  paper  published  in  Rennes, 

the  capital  of  Brittany. 


I'T.  ooflfiagiBfliiooail  9rf;t  lo 
il*  Ho  ^gniaai^ed  odi  aor'  ■  ^^ 

oisrrig  :l8or;' 
aijri  ,vnBj^^ha  iir  <■ 

.Q  .iM  ^e1ed'm^[^  baoi 
:ioH  lo  110139  J  odi  \o  -loili- 


iOVI  aJ"  mo^X  bainV-K^an  m  sVjihv 


WAR  DAYS  IN 
BRITTANY 


BY 

ELSIE  DEMING  JARVES 


Printed  by 

Saturday  Night  Press,  Inc. 

Detroit,  Michigan 

1920 


Copyright,  1920,  by 
Dkming  Jarvbr 


TO  THOSE  GENEROUS 

AMERICANS 

FROM  WHOM  CAME  THE 

FINANCIAL  AID  AND  MORAL  ENCOURAGEMENT 

NECESSARY  TO  HELP  US  THROUGH 

THESE  DAYS, 

IS  DEDICATED  THIS 

LITTLE    COLLECTION   OF   PERSONAL 

EXPERIENCES  DURING  THE 

GREAT  WAR 


Jtt0tit«t  he  Hffranre 

Madame: 

Vous  avez  v^gu  dans  notre  pays  ces  ann^es  de 
terrible  guerre;  vous  vous  ^tes  interress6e  k  tout  ce 
que  nous  avons  v6qn  de  mis^res,  a  tout  ce  qu'on  souffert 
nos  enfants.  Vous  m'avez  demand6  combien  des 
miens  ^taient  mort;  J'avais  quatre  petits  neveux, 
trois  sont  tomb^s  au  Champ  d'Honneur;  un  reste  qui 
etait  aviateur  en  Russie  et  qui  a  obtenu  trois  citations 
k  I'ordre  de  I'arm^e,  cela,  c'est  le  cas  habituel  des 
families  Bourgoises;  je  ne  me  plaine  pas,  ne  m'eu 
vaute:  Aucun  des  enfants,  n'etait  mari6,  aucun  n'a 
laisse  d'enfants;  mais  les  morts  sont  nombreux  ailleur 
et  leurs  veuves  et  leurs  petits  enfants  vivent.  II 
faut  qu'ils  vivent;  ne  serait  ce  que  pour  opposer  en- 
core leurs  poitrines  aux  Barbares  quand  ils  reviendront 
sur  nous  pour  engager  la  Supreme  bataille.  Deux 
millions  de  Frangais  sont  mort  sauver  la  liberty  du 
monde.  Ils  ont  donn^  aux  autres  le  temps  de  venir, 
mais  le  temps  comme,  ils  I'ont  pay^! 

Si  I'Am^rique  veut  aider  leurs  enfants  a  s'instruire, 
et  k  se  former  aux  bonnes  etudes  nous  I'accepterons; 
ceux  qui  sont  mort  sont  mort  pour  EUe  comme  ils  sont 
mort  pour  la  France.     Veuillex  agr^er  Madame  I'hom- 
mage  de  mes  sentiments  respectueux. 

Frederic  Masson. 
December  12,  1918. 


CONTENTS 

Page 

In  Brittany  (1914) 3 

The  Train  of  the  Wounded  (1914) 7 

Dinard  Day  by  Day  (1914) 15 

Dinard  Actualities  (1914-1915) 23 

To  a  Dying  Boy  (1915) 33 

The  Substitute  Mother  (1915) 37 

Sons  of  France  (1915) 45 

Hail  to  the  Dead  (1916) 61 

A  Red  Cross  Hospital  (1916) 71 

The  Castle  of  Combourg  (1916) 75 

A  Belgian  Romance   (1917) .83 

The  Vow  (1917)        95 

What  Frenchwomen  Are  Doing  in  War  Time  (1917)     ...  99 

Prisoners  and  Ambulances  (1918) 109 

To  a  Poilu  (1918) 123 

Our  War  Work  (1918) • 127 

Americans  in  Brittany  (1918) 135 

Victorious  Bells  of  France  (1918) ^145 


X 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


French  war  posters  (in  colors) Front  flysheet 

Mrs.  Deming  Jarves Frontispiece 


VACINS 
PAGE 


Arrival  of  the  wounded — Group  of  snapshots 7 

Funeral  oraison — In  the  cemetery 15 

Arriving  at  the  hospitals 26 

Wounded  at  the  Grand  Casino  hospital 26 

French  war  poster  (in  colors) 45 

Procession  on  the  way  to  the  cemetery 63 

French  cemeteries  decorated  on  the  "Jour  des  Morts"  ...  63 

Chateau  of  the  Comte  and  Comtesse  de  Durfort  at  Combourg  75 

Interior  of  Castle  of  Combourg — The  Chatelaine  and  a  few 

of  the  wounded 76 

Group  in  front  of  the  Castle  of  Combourg 76 

"Yolande  de  M— " 83 

Facsimiles  of  proclamations  placarded  all  over  the  walls  of 

Namur 84 

French  war  poster  (in  colors) 99 

French  war  poster  (in  colors) 103 

French  wounded  huddled  in  shed  in  German  prison      .      .      .116 

Cruelty  to  French  officer  in  German  prison 116 

Deming  Jarves  (1918) 127 

Garden  of  Val  Fleuri,  Dinard 132 

French  war  poster  (in  colors) 145 

French  war  poster  (in  colors) 147 

French  war  poster  (in  colors) Back  flysheet 


IN  BRITTANY 


IN  BRITTANY 

I 

Sing  me  a  song  of  the  west  country 
Where  priest  and  peasant  still  abide; 

Where  giant  cliffs  come  down  to  the  sea 
To  lave  their  feet  in  the  long  green  tide; 

Atlantic  rollers,  huge  and  free, 

Beat  high  on  the  coast  of  Brittany! 

II 

Sing  of  the  pearly  sky  hung  low. 
Of  verdant  forests  girding  the  land! 

Where  heather  and  gorse  on  the  hillsides  glow, 
The  long  gray  lines  of  the  Menhir  stand, 

Guarding  their  secret  constantly 

Through  age-long  silence,  in  Brittany. 

Ill 

The  high-flung  roofs  in  lichen  decked. 
Yellow  and  green  and  golden-hrown, 

With  tiny  flowers  and  weeds  o'er-flecked. 
Shelter  the  cottages  of  the  town ; 

While  up  from  the  chimneys,  silently, 

Floats  the  thin,  blue  smoke  of  Brittany. 

IV 

A  gleam  of  brass  through  the  open  door, 

Of  walled-in  bed  of  carven  oak, 
Of  polished  flags  upon  the  floor, 

'Neath  heavy  rafters  black  with  smoke; 
The  song  of  the  wheel  as,  cannily. 
The  wife  spins  her  flax  in  Brittany. 

[3] 


War  Days  in  Brittany 

V 

The  sabots  clatter  doivn  the  street, 

The  church  bell  sounds  across  the  bay, 

The  brown  sails  of  the  fishing  fleet 
Grow  black  against  the  dying  day; 

While  sun  and  peace  sink  glowingly 

Upon  the  land  of  Brittany. 

VI 

Mystic  and  weird  is  the  ancient  tale 

Of  Arthur  and  Merlin,  and  knights  of  old! 

Of  Celtic  ardor,  and  holy  Grail, 

Of  Church,  and  Priest,  and  Castleholdl 

Of  Prince  and  Peasant  ardently 

Guarding  the  faith  in  Brittany. 

VII 

Land  of  the  Legends!     Country  of  Dreams — 
Of  Saints,  and  Pardons,  and  Ancient  Faith! 

Deep-hidden  beside  your  forest  streams 
Still  live  the  sprites  and  ghostly  wraith! 

Land  of  Crosses,  where,  fervently. 

The  peasants  still  pray  in  Brittany! 

VIII 

Brave  are  your  sons  as  they  sail  the  seas 
'Mid  storm  and  tempest  and  winter  gale! 

Brave  the  wife  as  she  waits  on  the  leas 
For  the  distant  gleam  of  homing  sail! 

Brave  and  patient  and  earnestly 

The  peasants  still  pray  in  Brittany! 

— Elsie  Demtng  Jarves. 


THE  TRAIN  OF  THE  WOUNDED 


'l"oi' — Dciiiiiifi;  Jiirvos  Motor  Car  at  thf  .Station. 
Ckntkr — First  Wourulod  Arriving;  at  Dinard. 
Bottom — Arrivinji;  at  the  lIosj)itals. 


THE  TRAIN  OF  THE  WOUNDED 


The  train  draws  up  gently,  soldiers  appear  at  the  doors, 
silent  and  patiently  waiting,  some  with  foreheads  swathed 
in  reddening  bandages,  others  with  their  arms  in  slings, 
again  others  leaning  on  crutches.  One  could  not  judge  of 
the  number,  as  more  wounded  were  lying  on  the  seats. 
One  saw  only  black  and  white  and  yellow  faces  peering 
anxiously  forth,  and  one  understood  that  these  soldiers 
had  no  words  to  express  their  sufferings,  they  only  wait 
'^for  help." 

A  young  doctor,  just  commencing  his  life  of  self-sacri- 
fice, his  eyes  heavy  with  fever,  his  shoulders  drooping 
with  fatigue,  seeks  the  military  doctor  in  charge  at  the 
station  and  hands  him  a  list  giving  him  some  information, 
brief  and  military,  on  the  wounded  hundreds  behind  him. 
Some  are  so  injured  they  must  have  instant  help.  Here 
are  men  who  may  travel  further;  seeking  from  station  to 
station  the  promised  assistance. 

The  more  desperately  wounded  are  removed  on 
stretchers;  the  nuns  bring  cooling  water  to  wash  their 
fevered  hands  and  faces;  the  nurses  bring  them  food  and 
hot  coffee;  kind  hands  replace  their  slings,  awry;  boys  and 
girls  bring  them  newspapers,  cigarettes  and  candies.  All 
wish  to  express  their  admiration  and  devotion  to  these 
humble  defenders  of  France. 

All  along  the  vast  platforms  are  rows  of  stretchers,  each 
laden  with  its  suffering  humanity.  One  counts  the  men 

[7] 


8  fVar  Days  in  Brittany 

by  the  upturned  boot  soles.  Alas!  those  wounded  in  the 
legs  hang  brokenly  down.  Here  a  wretched  man  with 
broken  shoulder  wanders  toward  the  operating  room,  in- 
stalled in  every  railway  station.  There  a  feeble  comrade 
leans  on  the  shoulders  of  a  nurse  as  he  struggles  toward 
the  doctors  awaiting  him. 

The  more  seriously  wounded  must  remain  on  the  spot, 
and  the  medical  director  inspects  him,  as  taking  his  num- 
ber he  encourages  him  with  a  few  words:  ^'Now,  my  brave 
one,  you  will  not  travel  further;  a  look,  a  look  at  your 
wound,  my  friend,  and  then  to  a  comfortable  hospital." 
The  wounded  soldier  touches  his  cap,  lifts  his  covering 
and  shows  a  dressing  spotted  with  yellow  and  brown ;  but 
has  the  strength  to  say  to  the  bearers,  ''Carefully,  gently, 
my  friends;  I  suffer  much!"  and  he  looks  with  misgiving 
on  the  motor  car,  for  they  are  moving  him  again.  Poor 
fellow,  he  has  suffered  so  much. 

They  lift  him  tenderly  and  he  disappears  beneath  the 
Red  Cross  ambulance,  there  to  find  a  nurse  who  whispers 
"My  little  soldier,  another  moment  of  patience  and  thou 
wilt  find  thyself  amidst  cool  sheets,  far  from  noise  and 
confusion.  Thou  shalt  rest  in  peace,  and  thou  shalt  be 
well." 

In  the  midst  of  this  "empressement,"  this  joy  of  helping, 
the  German  prisoners,  wounded  and  far  from  home,  are 
not  forgotten.  At  the  door  of  one  of  the  wagons  a  little 
brown  chap  is  leaning,  silent,  but  with  shining  eyes.  The 
odors  of  good,  refreshing  coffee  and  hot  bread  are  wafted 
to  him ;  but  he  does  not  make  a  sign.     But  how  hungry  he 


The  Train  of  the  Wounded  9 

is!  And  those  good  comrades  behind  him  who  for  so 
many  days  faced  death  and  famine  in  the  trenches — how 
they  hunger!  He  glances  behind  him.  Here  a  man  Hes  on 
his  back,  his  eyes  closed.  Another  is  gasping,  with  his 
hands  clenched.  Others  are  crouching  in  obscurity.  How 
hungry  they  are!  How  the  thirst  burns.  But  one  must 
not  ask  mercy  of  one's  conquerors. 

Suddenly  a  young  doctor,  with  a  nun  at  his  side,  ap- 
pears at  the  window.  Coffee,  bread  and  meat  are  offered ; 
it  is  the  little  brown  wounded  one  kneeling  at  the  window 
who  brings  to  his  fellows  the  hospitality  of  France. 

The  officers  are  crowded  together,  heads  swathed  in 
blood-stained  bandages,  legs  and  arms  encircled  in  spotted 
bands,  but  their  voices  are  lowered  as  they  thank  the  nuns, 
and  they  squeeze  themselves  together  to  allow  a  freer 
space  to  the  more  injured  companion.  The  newspaper 
brought  to  them  tells  them  of  the  battles  in  which  they 
have  fought,  and  in  the  list  of  those  fallen  on  the  field  of 
honor  appears  the  name  of  many  a  cherished  friend. 

Oh,  the  brave,  humble  little  Piou-Piou!  The  little  in- 
fantrymen who  so  bravely  and  so  enthusiastically  have 
fought  for  their  native  soil;  wounded  in  arm  and  leg,  in 
head  and  thigh,  in  foot  and  hand;  uncomplaining,  patient 
and  grateful,  so  tired  and  so  injured,  but  as  ready  to  re- 
turn to  their  trenches,  bearing  all  things,  suffering,  seeking 
a  nameless  grave,  that  their  beloved  France  may  remain 
free  and  intact.  These  are  unknown,  courageous  French- 
men, who  on  the  present-day  battlefields  appeal  to  us  to 
help,  comfort  and  succor  in  this  their  day  of  tribulation. 


10  JVar  Daps  in  Brittany 

At  Rennes  and  the  larger  towns  there  are  comforts  and 
medical  equipments  impossible  for  our  little  Dinard  and 
its  hastily-installed  hospitals;  all  the  hotels  and  casinos 
have  been  ''requisitiones"  and  we  are  doing  our  best  to 
make  things  comfortable  for  those  poor  chaps;  but  we 
lack,  alas,  so  much !  There  are  no  ambulances,  and  so  all 
sorts  of  conveyances  are  called  into  use,  from  elegant  . 
limousines  and  small  motor  cars,  down  through  the  list  of 
private  carriages  and  cabs,  to  express  carts. 

It  is  a  painful  sight  to  see  these  latter,  minus  springs  or 
even  mattresses  (which  are  all  in  use  in  hospitals),  bump- 
ing the  poor  wounded  over  car-tracks  and  crossings  to 
their  destination. 

At  the  grand  casino  one's  heart  is  torn  by  the  sight  of 
such  suffering  supported  so  uncomplainingly.  A  large 
hall  is  hastily  arranged  with  cane-bottomed  chairs,  in 
front  of  each  a  tin  basin,  hot  water  in  cans  (heated  on  a 
gas  stove)  is  poured  into  these  primitive  receptacles,  and 
ladies  of  the  Croix  Rouge  kneel  in  front  of  these  rough 
wounded  men.  It  is  hard  work,  sometimes,  to  separate 
the  heavy  army  boots  from  the  wounded  feet.  Some  of 
these  men  have  not  had  their  boots  off  in  two  months; 
constantly  marching  to  and  fro  over  those  fields  and 
through  the  mud,  ready  at  any  moment  to  spring  to  arms 
to  defend  us  and  our  homes.  It  is  the  least  we  can  do,  to 
help  their  pain  now. 

The  blood  has  soaked  through  the  worn-out  socks,  and 
the  whole  mass  is  impregnated  with  dirt,  blood,  etc.; 
but  how  grateful  they  are,  these  poilus,  to  have  their 


The  Train  of  the  Wounded  11 

wounds  dressed,  their  torn,  dirty  uniforms  removed,  and 
to  find  themselves  in  comfortable  beds,  a  soothing  drink 
of  beef  tea,  with  a  dash  of  brandy  held  to  their  lips,  and  a 
soft  pillow  behind  their  weary  heads.  One  boy  said  to 
me,  as  we  finally  got  him  in  bed:  "Madam,  one  goes 
gladly  to  fight  for  la  France,  but  now,  I  must  rest  awhile. 
With  such  kind  ladies  to  aid  me,  I  know  I  shall  soon  gain 
strength  enough  to  return  to  show  those  Boches."  What 
la  Jeunesse  Francaise  is  willing  to  bear  for  France! 

October,  19U. 


t 


DINARD  DAY  BY  DAY 


Uk 


DINARD  DAY  BY  DAY 


Up  the  village  street  comes  the  funeral.  Gusts  of  wind, 
bearing  fog  and  rain  on  their  wings,  roar  up  the  roadway, 
tossing  the  branches  against  the  low  sky,  tearing  the  last 
Autumn  leaves  from  the  trees,  whirling  the  skirts  of  the 
women  and  the  white  garments  of  the  priest,  as  the 
mournful  little  band  struggles  towards  the  church. 

The  bell  is  tolling  in  long,  heavy  notes;  the  funeral  cars, 
alas!  three  in  number,  move  slowly  along;  the  ''tricolor," 
wet  and  draggled,  whipping  above  the  heads  of  the  little 
troopers  who  have  lain  down  their  lives  that  it  may  float 
free  and  unsubdued  over  France. 

What  a  sad  little  procession  it  is!  First,  a  chorister 
bearing  a  cross;  then  two  others  chanting,  with  the  priest, 
the  dirge  for  the  dead. 

On  either  side  of  the  three  hearses  limp  a  few  soldiers, 
their  red  trousers  the  only  spot  of  color  in  the  black  and 
gray  landscape. 

A  group  of  the  Red  Cross  nurses  follow,  their  dark 
cloaks  and  white  head-dresses  straining  in  the  gale,  and 
then  the  crowd  of  sorrowing  people.  Poor,  humble  folk 
they  are,  in  sabots  and  heavy  black  peasant  costumes. 
Old  women  tottering  along  together,  bending  their  white- 
coiffed  heads  to  the  blast.  Young  women,  white  and 
broken-hearted.  Tragedy  written-  in  changeless  lines  on 
their  faces,  innocent  victims  of  this  unspeakable  war, 
bearing  their  last  poor  little  offerings  in  t^ieir  red  hands, 

[15] 


16  War  Days  in  Brittany 

a  few  rain-beaten  bunches  of  chrysanthemums,  the  only 
tribute  they  can  offer  to  their  dear  ones. 

The  bell  still  tolls  mournfully;  the  bowed,  black  figures 
grow  fainter  in  the  mist.  In  from  the  Atlantic  sweeps  the 
storm,  raging  above  the  piteous  mourners.  Shrieking! 
Whistling!  Howling!  Where  now  the  sunny  France  sung 
by  the  poets?  Where  the  gaiety  and  life,  so  typical  of  the 
charming  French? 

Gray  clouds,  wind-swept  roads,  black  skeleton  branches, 
straining  away  from  the  sea.  Rain  in  gusts.  Cold,  sorrow, 
desolation  in  all  the  land! 

Since  the  war  began,  seventy-five  thousand  Frenchmen 
have  fallen  on  the  field  of  honor.  Some  on  the  battlefields, 
some  in  the  trenches,  others  destroyed  beyond  human 
recognition.  Nameless  graves  cover  the  northern  plains. 
In  innumerable  hospitals  lie  the  broken  remnants  of 
French  manhood. 

Five  hundred  thousand  they  are  today,  suffering  untold 
agonies,  helpless,  uncomplaining. 

What  can  Americans,  in  the  happy  safety  of  their  homes 
know  of  the  tragedy,  the  death,  that  overwhelms  us  here? 

It  is  so  far-reaching,  so  stupendous,  so  heart-breaking, 
all  energy  and  activity  become  paralyzed. 

Where  begin?  What  can  one  do?  If  one  helps  only  a 
few  hundreds,  how  about  the  thousands  one  cannot 
reach? 

England,  in  fine  generosity,  has  sent  supplies  of  all 
kinds:  medicines,  garments,  hospital  stores,  surgical  in- 
struments; five  hundred  tons  have  crossed  the  channel. 


Dinar d  Day  by  Day  17 

Beyond  praise,  the  pitying  help  of  England!  She  has 
poured  her  wealth,  her  supplies,  her  splendid  armies, 
into  France,  giving  ungrudgingly  and  constantly.  But 
for  her  timely  assistance,  we  should  be  in  unimaginable 
straits.  But  now  England  needs  for  her  own. 

With  her  great  losses  in  men,  fifty-seven  thousand;  her 
own  wounded  the  end  of  this  October ;  her  thousands  upon 
thousands  of  refugees — one  cannot  expect  her  to  do  for  all. 

How  are  her  cousins  across  the  Atlantic  coming  to  our 
aid? 

Can  we  count  on  the  Americans?  Will  their  warm  hearts 
send  out  to  us  these  necessities  for  the  wounded  not  only 
NOW,  but  during  the  long  weary  months  that  stretch 
in  such  dreary  perspective  before  us? 

The  melancholy  little  funeral  is  a  daily  occurrence ;  so 
used  to  it  are  we,  one  scarcely  notices  it.  The  wounded 
living  claim  all  our  pity  and  work. 

Darkness  closes  down  early  these  bleak  November 
days,  and  the  few  straggling  lights  illumine  streets  de- 
serted. At  8  o'clock  all  cafes  close,  the  lamps  are  put  out, 
and  only  the  military  patrol  with  their  feeble  lanterns 
traverse  the  gloom.  Nothing  more  until  the  cold  Novem- 
ber dawn  wakes  us  to  another  day  of  hard  work. 

Where  fashionable  women  in  luxurious  motor-cars 
sped  through  the  avenues,  now  soldiers  hobbling  on  sticks 
and  crutches,  or  wheeled  in  chairs,  appear.  Women  and 
children  swathed  in  crepe  wander  in  dumb  groups  on  the 
Esplanade.  The  shops  are  full  of  soldiers'  necessities,  and 
everywhere  high  and  low,  young  and  old,  the  seamstress, 


18  War  Days  in  Brittany 

the  shop-keeper  behind  her  counter,  the  young  girls  tak- 
ing their  morning  walks,  even  little  schoolgirls,  grand- 
mammas and  nurses,  all  are  knitting. 

If  a  friend  come  to  call  (a  rare  pleasure  nowadays,  as 
all  are  too  busy  for  social  amenities),  out  come  the  needles 
from  a  bag.  The  tea  hour  is  interrupted  by  the  click  of 
steel  and  the  counting  of  stitches. 

Those  who  cannot  nurse  are  knitting  socks,  comforters, 
chest-protectors,  cholera  belts,  for  the  nights  are  cold  on 
the  battlefields  and  the  trenches  are  often  full  of  water. 
The  chilling  fogs  creep  up  from  the  Flemish  marshes  and 
the  little  soldier,  the  little  Piou-Piou,  has  many  long  hours 
to  face  the  cold  and  darkness.  Happy  he  who  has  some 
loving  women  to  knit  for  him. 

Strong,  vigorous  young  men  one  never  sees!  Only 
wounded  fellows,  old  men  in  mourning,  and  priests  cease- 
lessly on  their  errands  of  consolation  and  pity. 

In  this  hour  of  tribulation,  France  has  turned  devoutly 
and  repentantly  to  religion.  The  tone  of  the  press  has 
changed.  A  reverant  and  humble  seeking  after  Divine 
help  is  felt  in  their  supplications. 

It  is  not  only  the  women  and  the  ancients  who  now  pray, 
for  over  many  hospital  cots  hang  a  crucifix,  and  hardened, 
indifferent  men  turn  in  their  agony  to  the  ever-present 
clergy. 

One  dying  man  told  me  with  great  pride  that  though 
he  had  been  a  great  scoffer  and  unbeliever  for  many 
years,  "Now  that  he  had  confessed  and  received  absolu- 
tion, he  was  at  peace  and  willing  to  go;"  so,  during  the 


Dinar d  Day  by  Day  19 

long  watches  of  the  night,  the  old  priest,  broken  as  he 
was  with  fatigue  and  sleeplessness,  sat  beside  the  poor  chap 
comforting  him  through  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow,  and 
when  dawn  came  shortly,  closed  his  eyes,  placing  the 
crucifix  between  the  stiffening  fingers. 

When  the  next  day  I  placed  a  few  flowers  about  the 
quiet  form  I  found  the  rugged  features  softened,  all 
coarseness  had  disappeared.  He  lay  at  peace  with  God 
and  man. 

Who  was  he?  A  peasant?  A  shoe-maker?  A  factory 
hand  or  street  cleaner?  Perhaps  an  Apache?  I  do  not 
know.  But  he  gave  all  he  had — his  young  life!  Surely 
he  has  gone  to  his  reward. 

Dinar d,  November,  1914- 


DINARD  ACTUALITIES 

1914-1915 


DINARD  ACTUALITIES 

1914-1915 

There  are  four  thousand  wounded  in  Dinard  this  winter, 
and  the  need  for  chemises,  antiseptic  cotton,  sacks  and 
bandages,  never  diminishes.  I,  fortunately,  have  a  few 
things  left  from  what  I  brought  over,  and  I  am  dealing 
them  out,  as  if  worth  their  weight  in  gold.  Socks  are 
much  appreciated,  as  many  are  wounded  in  the  feet,  and 
cannot  put  on  slippers  or  shoes.  One  poor  wretched  Bel- 
gian hospital  has  depended  all  the  winter  on  what  we 
gave  them.  The  Matron  told  me  hut  for  us  they  would  have 
had  nothing.  She  has  been  up  two  or  three  times  since  my 
return  begging  socks,  chemises  and  slippers,  but,  alas,  I 
had  none  to  give  her!  She  said  the  men  were  obliged  to 
stay  in  their  rooms  or  beds  as  their  uniforms  were  so  dirty, 
torn,  and  shot-riddled,  they  had  to  be  repaired,  and, 
having  nothing  else  to  wear,  they  had  to  stay  in  hospital. 
I  went  by  there  the  other  day,  a  glorious  sunny  summer 
afternoon,  and  I  saw  such  poor,  white  faces  looking  out 
so  longingly,  so  young,  and  so  suffering — mere  boys  of 
twenty,  twenty- two  and  twenty-four. 

I  hate  to  say  too  much  about  the  sorrowing  and  suffer- 
ing over  here — so  much  has  been  given,  especially  from 
America,  where  the  generosity  has  been  overwhelming. 
One  cannot  see  such  wistfulness  and  patience  without 
finding  a  renewal  of  sympathy  and  a  wish  to  help. 

I  was  notified  last  week,  that  on  Saturday,  July  10th, 
at  4  o'clock,  the  Prefet  of  our  department  (the  governor 

[23] 


24  War  Days  in  Brittany 

of  the  state)  will  come  to  Val  Fleuri,  officially,  in  full 
uniform,  surrounded  by  his  staff,  to  thank  us  in  the  name 
of  France,  for  what  we  have  obtained  from  our  friends 
in  America,  and  to  express  through  us  the  Government's 
grateful  recognition  of  America's  generosity.  French 
people  tell  me  it  is  a  rare  honor  which  the  government 
is  showing  us,  and  is  an  expression  of  France's  gratitude 
to  America.  The  Prefet  asked  for  a  report  (which  we  sent), 
and  the  government  has  perfect  cognizance  from  whence 
came  our  supplies.  So  that  you  may  be  sure  that  full 
recognition  has  been  made  for  the  shipments. 

Many  wounded  there  are  always,  but  the  spirit  of  the 
French  people  is  magnificent.  No  sacrifice  is  too  great 
to  make,  no  economy  too  severe.  All  France  has  the  ut- 
most confidence  in  the  soldiers  and  their  generals,  and 
everyone  feels  it  is  time  for  endurance,  economy  and 
work.  And  all,  high  and  low,  rich  and  poor,  are  putting 
their  hearts  and  courage  into  the  affair,  with  an  enthus- 
iasm and  devotion  quite  surprising  to  those  who  thought 
of  France  as  a  decadent  nation. 

Yesterday  I  met  at  tea  a  French  duchess,  last  year  the 
most  frivolous  and  worldly  person,  always  dressed  in  the 
height  of  fashion  and  devoted  to  golf,  bridge,  and  motor- 
ing. Yesterday  she  was  dressed  in  a  cheap,  ready-made 
black  serge  suit,  with  a  black  straw  sailor  hat,  trimmed 
with  a  black  taffeta  bow,  such  as  a  poor  little  governess 
or  an  upper  housemaid  would  have  worn  a  year  ago.  And 
she  said  she  was  proud  to  wear  the  costume,  bought 
ready-made  at  the  "Galleries  Lafayette"  for  50  francs. 


Dinar d  Actualities  25 

She  has  had  a  hospital  in  her  chateau  since  the  war 
began,  where  one  hundred  httle  Pious-Pious  have  been 
taken  care  of  and  nursed  back  to  health,  and,  alas,  to  a 
quick  return  to  the  trenches!  So  she  said  she  had  no 
money  "pour  la  toilette.'' 

What  these  French  women  are  doing  is  beyond  praise. 
A  sober,  quiet  determination  has  taken  the  place  of  their 
erstwhile  frivolity.  And  when  one  sees  delicately  nur- 
tured ladies  doing  the  most  ordinary  menial  work  in  the 
hospitals,  not  day  by  day,  but  month  by  month,  rising  at 
7  A.  M.,  and  only  returning  home  for  meals  and  bed  at 
8.30  P.  M. — ^women  who  in  former  times  thought  of  nothing 
but  extravagance,  luxury  and  display — one  realizes  that 
there  is  good,  red  blood  left  in  France,  and  the  Gallic 
strain,  having  supported  the  trials  of  centuries,  is  still 
able  to  make  a  stand  for  justice  and  freedom. 

The  best  English  and  French  authorities  say  that  the 
war  will  last  at  least  a  year  or  eighteen  months.  An 
English  colonel  told  me  recently  that  the  British  gov- 
ernment was  preparing  to  make  heavy-calibre  guns  for 
August,  1916,  and  the  French  are  settling  down  to  an- 
other year  or  two  of  war,  but  after  the  Lusitania  horror  I 
should  think  all  Americans  would  feel  it  their  bounden 
duty  to  help  the  allies.  If  they  are  defeated,  what 
chance  has  America  against  the  German  spirit  of  world 
dominion?  And  we  want  to  remember  that  every  pair  of 
socks,  every  bandage,  every  roll  of  cotton  is  a  stone  in 
the  barricade  against  these  abominable  Huns.  There  is 
no  uncertainty,  no  discouragement,  no  failing  in  French 


26  War  Days  in  Brittany 

lines  or  English,  which  hold  580  miles  from  the  North 
Sea  to  Switzerland. 

I  often  go  to  the  ''Arrivee  des  Blesses."  Alas,  they  come 
too  often  to  the  railroad  station,  long  stretchers  filled  with 
broken  humanity.  Does  one  ever  hear  complaints,  groans 
or  repinings?  No,  never!  One  said  to  me  as  I  gave  him  a 
cup  of  beef  tea,  after  he  had  been  lifted  from  a  box  car 
where  he  had  passed  three  days  and  three  nights:  "Ma- 
dame, I  am  a  homeless  cripple,  my  eyesight  is  gone  and 
I  am  forever  dependent  on  my  family,  my  poor  wife  and 
my  children.  But,  in  the  future,  when  France  is  victorious 
and  at  peace,  they  will  not  begrudge  their  old  father  his 
sup  and  board,  for  he  was  decorated  by  the  guns  of 
Arras"  (meaning,  poor  wretch,  his  sightless  eyes). 

The  Belgian  soldiers  are  strong,  able-bodied,  silent  fel- 
lows, and  speak  eagerly  of  their  return  to  their  country. 
They  do  not  seem  to  realize  that  such  a  consummation  is 
most  unlikely. 

I  am  sending  by  express  a  few  baskets  made  by  them 
as  they  lie  crippled  on  their  hospital  cots.  The  little 
money  I  paid  for  them  will  buy  them  tobacco,  chocolate, 
post-cards  and  pencils.  I  should  be  glad  if  you  will  give 
these  baskets  to  your  friends  who  have  so  kindly  sent  us 
things.  They  are  of  no  value,  but  they  will  show  our 
appreciation  of  all  you  have  done.  There  are  also  some 
rings  made  out  of  the  aluminum  which  forms  the  point 
of  the  German  shells.  The  men  have  picked  them  up 
on  the  battlefields  and  in  the  trenches  —  these  bits, 
so  full  of  interest  and  personal  strife — and  have  made 


Wounded  Arriving  at  the  Hospitals 


Wounded  at  the  Grand  Casino  Hospital — Mrs.  Deming  Jarves  in 
Civilian  Dress  in  Center  of  Group 


Dinard  Actualities  27 

them  into  rough  rings,  but  carrying  a  pathetic  interest 
of  their  own. 

The  first  of  the  ''Grands  Blesses  Prisonniers  en  AUe- 
magne"  have  arrived.  They  came  via  Switzerland  to 
Lyons,  and  from  there  have  been  distributed  through 
the  country  and  seashore  places.  Nineteen  came  to 
Dinard,  very  severely  injured — blind,  many  one-legged, 
and  some  badly  disfigured,  but  so  rejoiced,  poor  chaps,  to 
find  themselves  once  more  in  France.  Some  have  been 
in  Germany  since  September.  They  say  they  were  kindly 
treated  in  the  hospitals,  but  had  precious  little  to  eat. 
Their  looks  show  it,  being  quite  emaciated.  Being  also* 
accustomed  to  little  food,  their  capacity  for  digesting 
has  also  decreased — much  to  their  regret;  but,  no  doubt, 
that  misfortune  will  correct  itself  now  they  are  back  in 
the  "land  of  plenty." 

It  appears  that  when  the  train  drew  up  in  the  Lyons 
Gare,  they  saw  hundreds  of  enthusiastic  compatriots 
cheering  and  waving  flags  and  handkerchiefs,  flowers 
everywhere,  and  heard  the  ''Clarions  de  France,"  some 
broke  down  and  cried  like  children.  They  had  borne  the 
privations  and  sufferings  consequent  to  imprisonment  for 
ten  long  months,  but  when  they  heard  those  sweet,  clear 
notes,  and  saw  the  "tricolor"  once  more  {Us  Avaient  le 
Coeur  Gros)  they  just  gave  way;  that  is,  the  weaker 
ones  did. 

At  the  mother-house  of  the  Little  Sisters  of  the  Poor, 
at  St.  Pern,  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  are  installed 
in  that  quiet  convent,  in  the  midst  of  the  rich  fields,  and 


28  JVar  Days  in  Brittany 

the  green  and  peaceful  woods  of  Brittan}'-,  with  those 
good  httle  sisters  to  wait  upon  them  and  nurse  them; 
with  fine  milk,  butter  and  eggs,  chickens  and  fresh  vege- 
tables to  eat,  they  will  soon  recover  and  they  can  hardly 
express  their  feelings,  poor  fellows,  but  just  sit  smiling 
and  cheery  in  the  sun.  Mere  boys,  many  of  them — thin- 
cheeked,  fresh-colored,  bright-eyed,  but  crippled  for  life. 
Older  men,  fathers  of  families,  bronzed  and  calm,  thank- 
ful to  be  in  France,  with  the  thought  of  soon  returning  to 
their  wives  and  children.  May  they  there  regain  their 
health  and  strength.  To  these  brave  ones,  we  all,  Ameri- 
cans and  French  alike,  owe  an  immense  debt  of  gratitude, 
for,  but  for  them  and  their  like,  we  would  be  facing  now  a 
very  different  outlook. 

What  impresses  one  above  all  is  their  modesty,  patience 
and  patriotism.  Whether  they  are  doctors  or  lawyers, 
peasants  or  little  artisans,  they  all  show  the  same  soul- 
stirring  love  for  France,  they  count  their  sufferings  as 
nothing  compared  to  the  welfare  of  the  nation. 

The  life  of  the  last  ten  years  which  we  knew  and  loved 
so  well,  has  vanished  like  the  snows  of  yester-year.  Where 
the  tango  w^as  danced  are  now  long  rows  of  hospital  cots. 
The  music  of  the  Hungarian  band  has  given  place  to  the 
silence  of  the  ambulance  corridors.  Crippled  men  are 
sitting  on  the  casino  verandas  where  fashionable  women 
in  former  years  strolled  in  idleness  and  elegance.  Horrid 
odors  of  iodoform  and  chloroform  assail  one,  instead  of 
the  perfume  of  the  flowers.  The  gay  young  girls  of  other 
days,  who  laughed  and  flirted  and  danced  in  these  airy 


Dinar d  Actualities  29 

halls,  are  now  demure  Red  Cross  nurses,  in  severe  white 
linen  gowns,  the  Red  Cross  embroidered  on  their  white 
veils ;  a  vivid  testimony  to  their  real  nature  and  pitying 
compassion  for  the  helpless. 

What  a  few  awful  months  of  this  World's  War  seems 
to  us  over  here.  You  in  America,  who  continue  to  live 
as  much  as  usual,  can  really  have  but  little  conception. 
To  you  that  pageant  and  tragedy  of  war  is  as  "A  Tale  that 
is  Told" — very  horrible,  perhaps,  but  of  necessity  it  can- 
not affect  you  intimately.  You  can  know  little  of  the 
heartrending  day-by-day  experience  and  hourly  ordeals 
demanded  of  those  men  and  women  of  France. 

Some  few  weeks  ago  I  attended  a  class  for  ''first  aid" 
to  the  injured,  whose  matron  was  rather  a  formidable 
Frenchwoman,  laden  with  years  and  honors.  As  I  went 
in,  a  friendly  Red  Cross  nurse  murmured:  "The  poor 
Marquise  had  just  received  a  telegram  two  hours  ago 
announcing  the  death  of  both  her  sons;  but,  you  know, 
her  husband  was  killed  in  September,  and  she  has  given 
her  boys  to  France.  She  does  not  wish  it  mentioned — 
do  not  refer  to  it."  As  I  looked  at  that  wrinkled  but 
composed  countenance,  so  stern  and  so  calm,  as  I  listened 
to  her  instructions,  given  in  a  quiet  voice,  it  was  quite 
evident  that  the  old  French  proverb  still  holds  good, 
'^Bon  sang  ne  pent  mentir.'^  There  she  was,  an  old,  stricken 
mother,  looking  drearily  into  the  future.  Her  two  dear 
sons  kiUed  on  the  same  day  on  the  field  of  honor,  her 
home  forever  desolate.  But  she  came  down,  nevertheless, 
to  show  us  how  to  bandage  the  wounded  men,  to  teach 


30  War  Days  in  Brittany 

us  patience,  endurance  and  control  under  all  circum- 
stances. At  night  she  returns  to  her  lonely  hearth  to 
mourn  these  brave  boys.  But  did  she  not  need  our  sym- 
pathy? To  us,  watching  this  superb  example,  she  seemed 
to  embody  the  spirit  of  courage,  which  admits  of  no 
defeat.  The  valiant  heart  rising  above  the  wreck  of  hap- 
piness and  home  to  do  its  duty  to  ''La  Patrie." 

Only  a  short  distance  separates  us  from  the  battle- 
fields, where  the  manhood  of  France  and  England  are 
daily  laying  down  their  lives  in  defense  of  their  countries. 
God  grant  that  no  such  sacrifice  may  ever  be  demanded 
of  America.  To  us  who  have  remained  in  France,  life 
has  become  a  very  solemn  reality ;  as  we  go  forth  in  sober 
garb  and  spirit  to  do  what  we  can  for  these  suffering 
hundreds,  wounded  men  and  boys,  lonely  young  widows, 
stricken  parents,  we  realize  intensely  that  life  in  Europe 
has  utterly  changed.  The  old  order  of  things  has  passed 
away.   What  will  replace  it?   Who  can  tell? 

Letter  Written  to  Dr.  Livingston  Seaman, 
British  War  Relief  in  New  York, 
July,  1915. 


TO  A  DYING  BOY 


TO  A  DYING  BOY 


Poor  little  soldier,  lying  there  weak  and  wounded, 

Why  were  you  horn  to  live  so  brief  a  day? 
Is  your  young  manhood  but  to  serve  as  target 

For  the  grim  guns  of  war  to  injure  or  to  slay? 
So  young  to  die.     On  lip  and  cheek  and  forehead 

Still  flame  youth's  brilliant  colors,  white  and  red. 
And  your  clear  eyes  so  full  of  hope  and  courage, 

Must  we  tomorrow  count  you  with  the  dead? 

All  life  before  you;  glad  and  useful  hours 

Lay  shining  in  your  path  unsullied,  clear. 
Youth's  dreams  fulfilled  in  manhood's  ampler  duties, 

A  wife,  a  home,  and  all  that  we  hold  dear 
Vanished.   In  one  short  hour's  tragic  action, 

Swept  from  the  world  of  man  and  manly  ways. 
Naught  but  a  memory  in  your  mother's  bosom. 

Shall  soon  recall  your  transient,  earthly  days. 

In  vain  our  aid.    Our  utmost  skill  and  patience 

Cannot  re-string  the  loosened  silver  cord. 
The  golden  bowl  is  broken  at  the  fountain, 

And  your  lone  soul  must  hence  to  meet  it's  God, 
Lonely,  yet  clad  in  beauty  pure  and  holy, 

For  of  your  best  you  gave,  unstinted,  glad. 
That  at  your  country's  call  all  selfish  thought  and  purpose 

Faded  away — you  gave  your  life,  dear  lad! 

Dinard,  1915 

[33] 


THE  SUBSTITUTE  MOTHER 


THE  SUBSTITUTE  MOTHER 

{A  Story  of  France) 

In  the  old  house,  heavily  garlanded  with  ivy  and  climb- 
ing roses,  at  the  end  of  the  village,  lived  the  old  maid. 
Through  vistas  of  thick  foliage,  the  broken  sky-line  of 
tiled  roofs  appeared.  In  the  west,  the  church  tower  showed 
dark  against  the  sunset  skies. 

Here  she  had  lived  in  seclusion  these  many  years.  Her 
pigeons  feeding  on  the  green  lawn.  Her  rose  garden, 
fragrant  and  sunny,  facing  the  Eastern  hills.  Her  peulail- 
ler  (poultry  yard),  her  dogs,  her  cats,  filled  the  long  hours 
of  her  austere  life. 

In  solitude  she  ate  her  well-cooked  meals.  By  the  stone 
fireside  (in  other  years  the  center  of  family  life  and 
gaiety)  she  sat  in  the  evenings  reading  her  Figaro,  with 
her  knitting  in  the  recesses  of  the  Louis  XVI  "tricoteuse" 
close  at  hand  in  case  the  print  became  blurred,  which  so 
often  happened  of  late.  Meditating,  her  pure  thoughts 
far  from  the  world  and  its  stormy  passions,  her  judgment 
became,  perhaps,  too  severe;  her  charity  a  trifle  too  cus- 
tomary and  censorious.  All  her  actions  were  the  result 
of  axioms  and  precepts  laid  down  years  ago  by  long- 
dead  parents.  To  her  the  past  shone  with  a  glorious 
light  of  Humanity  and  Youth,  full  of  kindly  people  and 
cheerful  pleasures  and  gay  days.  The  present,  so 
solitary  and  sad,  had  crept  upon  her  unperceived,  to 
find  her  with  wrinkling  brow  and  graying  hair,  more 
and  more  lonely. 

137] 


38  fVar  Days  in  Brittany 

Every  morning  at  early  mass  she  looked  with  non- 
comprehension  into  the  faces  of  the  elderly  women — her 
comtemporaries — mothers  these  many  years.  Long  ago 
they  loved  and  married,  leaving  "la  Mademoiselle"  to 
her  patrician  seclusion  up  at  the  "great  house."  Lusty 
youths  and  strong,  fresh-faced  girls  clustered  about  these 
contemporaries;  sweet-faced  young  women,  holding  babies 
against  their  rounded  breasts;  boys  touched  their  caps 
in  awe  as  she  left  the  church;  girls  smiled,  blushing  and 
demure;  children  sucked  their  thumbs  and  bobbed  cour- 
tesies; but  to  none  was  she  vital  or  important.  To  them 
the  world  was  full  of  busy  pleasures  and  activities,  of 
warm  summer  days  and  young  joys;  to  her,  bending  over 
her  endless  tapestry-work  in  the  silence  of  the  old  manor, 
the  world  seemed  trite  indeed.  Her  home  was  so  orderly, 
so  clean,  so  proper,  so  remote  from  life.  No  muddy  foot- 
prints on  the  wax  floors,  no  child's  toys  forgotten  in  the 
corner,  no  cap  or  jacket  thrown  carelessly  on  disturbed 
furniture.  Her  apartments  were  sweet  with  lavender  and 
roses,  but  tobacco  smoke  was  a  stranger  to  their  antique 
propriety. 

Now,  suddenly,  all  these  quiet  ways,  these  time-honored 
habits  were  destroyed.  War  broke  over  France  and  she, 
with  countless  of  her  countrywomen,  donned  the  white 
linen  gown  embroidered  with  that  cross-of-red  emblem 
of  so  many  sacrifices  and  devotions.  The  hastily-installed 
hospital  became  her  only  thought;  all  her  energy,  care, 
and  patience  must  be  brought  to  the  aid  of  the  broken 
men  as  her  tribute  to  the  defenders  of  France. 


The  Substitute  Mother  39 

In  the  long  whitewashed  hall,  on  whose  blank  walls 
the  crucifix  hung  alone,  stood  the  double  row  of  beds, 
where  lay  these  valiant  fellows.  Young  boys  of  eighteen 
and  twenty,  arms  and  legs  in  plaster  or  bound  in  blood- 
stained bandages;  forced,  poor  chaps,  to  the  sight  of  such 
horrors  on  the  battlefields  as  to  remove  forever  their 
youthful  joyance  of  life.  Older  men,  bearded  and  bronzed, 
talked  to  her  of  their  family  life;  of  their  wives  and  chil- 
dren; of  the  little  humdrum  everyday  experiences,  so 
unknown  to  her,  so  commonplace  and  vital  to  them. 
Gone  for  her  the  tranquil  days  of  yester-year,  her  collec- 
tion of  laces,  her  bibelets,  her  books,  her  revues — all 
her  souvenirs  of  years  of  sedate  living  and  tranquil 
seclusion. 

Only  the  maps  of  the  battlefields  interested  her  now; 
the  long,  hard  duties  of  the  Red  Cross  nurse  were  more 
entrancing  than  her  most  delightful  journeys  in  Italy, 
or  her  summers  in  Switzerland.  Many  things  she  saw, 
heard,  and  was  obliged  to  do,  she  was  often  shocked  and 
horrified,  but  courage,  patience  and  skill  were  daily  de- 
manded of  her.  A  great  endurance  necessary  for  such 
arduous  work,  and  her  compassion  ever  inspired  renewed 
effort.  Life  and  death  were  there  in  frightful  reality  before 
her  eyes,  so  to  the  round-shouldered,  gray-headed  woman 
these  great  facts  became  the  motive  power  of  her  life. 
She  became  the  willing,  compassionate  servant  of  this 
army  of  cripples.  What  surprises  she  received!  What 
human  misery  she  witnessed!  What  confessions  she  heard! 
She  must  write  a  last  message  to  a  distant  mother  from 


40  fVar  Days  in  Brittany 

her  dying  son.  There  a  strong  man,  now  a  cripple,  im- 
plored her  to  tell  his  wife  of  his  misfortune;  again  an 
ignorant,  faithful  creature  begged  for  news  of  his  family. 
Since  the  war  began,  nearly  two  years  ago,  no  word  of 
them  had  reached  him.  To  all  these  little  duties  she 
added  the  care  of  their  injured  bodies,  the  dressing  of 
wounds,  the  feeding  of  the  helpless. 

To  her,  who  so  short  a  time  ago  lived  in  lonely  luxury, 
to  whom  the  world  and  life  were  as  a  closed  book;  to  her, 
who  last  year  was  satisfied  with  her  dogs  and  chickens, 
her  cats  and  pigeons,  who  looked  with  a  half-scornful, 
half-indignant  commiseration  on  the  vibrant  life  around 
her,  had  come  a  great  illumination!  From  these  big  chil- 
dren, the  rough  "poilus,"  soldiers  she  nursed  so  tenderly, 
she  learned  instinctively!  They  opened  their  hearts  to 
her,  they  showed  her  their  anguish  and  suffering!  They 
called  her  ''La  Petite  Mere,"  turning  to  her  in  all  hours 
for  consolation  and  help.  So  when  the  ''Demoiselle"  went 
home  after  12  hours'  work  for  these  wounded  ones,  her 
heart  was  filled  with  a  great  rejoicing;  a  warmth  and 
satisfaction  such  as  she  had  never  known  stole  through 
her  weary  body;  aching  feet  were  forgotten,  and  to  God 
she  sent  up  a  prayer  of  thankfulness  that  she  had  been 
allowed  "to  serve." 

It  was  a  lovely  June  evening.  The  night  breeze,  fra- 
grant with  new-mown  hay  and  the  perfume  of  sleeping 
field-flowers,  stole  through  the  open  window,  fluttering 
the  "Veilleuse"  as  it  cast  its  feeble  light  and  shadow  over 
the  still  form  lying  in  the  white  sheet,  so  soon  to  become 


The  Substitute  Mother  41 

its  shroud.  The  old  ''Demoiselle"  sat  there  in  pious 
thought,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  boy  she  had  nursed  so 
many  months,  now  so  near  to  death;  the  boy  whose  soul 
had  been  washed  clean  by  the  Holy  Sacrament  and  whose 
body  was  so  soon  to  disappear  from  the  world  of  men. 
Poor  fellow,  so  far  from  all  who  loved  him,  his  white 
features  showed  pinched  and  thin  in  the  light  of  the  cres- 
cent moon,  looking  over  the  black  masses  of  trees  into 
the  desolate  white  room.  From  time  to  time  his  stiffen- 
ing lips  murmered  "mother."  He  turned  his  head  feebly 
from  side  to  side  seeking  her,  who,  in  a  far-away  province, 
knew  nothing  of  her  son's  agony.  The  hours  dragged  on, 
the  young  moon  disappeared  behind  the  trees,  the  mori- 
bund moaned  gently  from  time  to  time.  A  cooler  breeze, 
fore-runner  of  morning  freshness,  swept  through  the 
wood.  The  ''Demoiselle"  still  kept  her  vigil,  changing 
her  patient's  pillow,  holding  a  cup  of  water  to  his  lips. 
Suddenly  he  gave  an  agonizing  cry:  "My  mother!  My 
mother!  Where  art  thou?  I  cannot  see!  It  is  growing 
dark!  Hold  me,  my  mother,  hold  me!" 

Then  to  the  old  maid  came  her  great  moment.  Taking 
the  poor,  trembling  form  in  her  arms,  she  pillowed  the 
rolling  head  on  her  bosom  and  pressing  her  lips  to  the 
dying  boy's  forehead  she  whispered:  "I  am  here,  my  son! 
Do  not  fear.  I,  your  mother,  hold  you.  You  are  safe  in 
my  arms,  my  little  one.  Rest  in  peace." 

The  sun  rose  in  glorious  June  splendor;  the  birds  were 
singing  their  morning  matins;  the  dewy  flowers  cast 
forth  a  ravishing  fragrance — only  in  the  sickroom  was 


42  War  Days  in  Brittany 

there  silence,  but  also  a  holy  peace,  for  the  old  maid — 
she  who  had  never  lied,  who  had  scorned  and  re- 
proved those  who  did  so  —  had  lied  eagerly  to  comfort 
the  passing  spirit  of  a  boy. 

Dinar d J  June,  1915. 


THE  SONS  OF  FRANCE 


DEBOUT  DANS  LA  TRANCHEE 
QUE  L'AURORE  ECLAIRE,  LE  SOLDAT 
REVE  A  LA  VICTOIRE  et  A  SON  FOYER. 

POUR  OU'IL  PUISSE  ASSURER  LUNE 
ET  RETROUVER  L'AUTRE. 

SOUSCRIVEZ 
AU  3!  EMPRUNTCa^  defense  NATIONALE 


tmctn    LKi 


IMP  rtnir*mMMt' 


THE  SONS  OF  FRANCE 

1915 

To  YOU,  in  God's  country,  safe  and  sound,  far  removed 
from  the  conditions  existing  over  here,  a  few  notes  of  our 
daily  existence  may  not  come  amiss. 

First,  let  me  quote  the  lines  found  on  a  dead  boy  in 
Champagne,  his  ^'Feuille  de  route''  (diary),  which  shows 
eloquently  how  the  little  '^piou-piou"  feels  these  sorrowful 
days  of  1914. 

Feuille  de  Route 

Diary  of  Albert  Ledrean,  volunteer  for  France  in  the 
war  of  1914.  Aged  18  years.  In  the  10th  Regiment  of 
Infantry.  Fell  on  the  field  of  honor,  October  17th,  1914, 
in  Champagne.  (This  diary  was  found  on  his  body  and 
sent  home  to  his  mother.) : 

"Auxonne,  Cotes  d'  Or,  September  15th,  1914 — At 
last  this  long-wished-for  moment  has  arrived.  The 
great  clock  on  the  facade  in  our  barracks  marks  12:45, 
it  is  the  hour  for  our  departure;  the  clear  notes  of  the 
bugles  announce  our  colonel's  approach;  he  appears,  his 
fine  horse  curvetting  and  prancing,  and  our  battalion 
stands  rigidly  at  attention  as  he  passes  us  on  review.  He 
draws  his  sword  and  gives  orders  to  advance.  The  regi- 
mental music  shrills  loudly,  our  troopers  with  quick  steps 
and  alert  bearing,  start  for  the  battlefields,  which  we 
have  so  long  desired  to  see. 

"We  have  decorated  our  rifles  with  huge  bunches  of 
flowers.  On  our  route  the  people  have  strewn  autumn 
leaves.  More  than  one  woman  weeps  as  we  go  by,  for 
our  passing  recalls  so  vividly  to  them,  those  poor  women, 
their  husbands,  or  brothers,  or  sons,  who  are  fighting 

[45] 


46  War  Days  in  Brittany 

out  yonder  in  the  defense  of  the  sacred  soil  of  France. 
At  the  railway  station  a  large  crowd  awaits,  hands  are 
shaken,  adieux  are  made  to  those  comrades  who  remain. 
We  climb  into  the  waiting  train.  Our  colonel  calls  us  to 
the  windows  and  stirs  our  souls  with  a  speech  of  patriotic 
feeling.  He  gives  the  accolade  to  our  commander,  and 
through  him,  to  us  all.  The  train  starts,  as  the  strains 
of  the  Marseillaise  float  in  the  air.  From  all  our  throats 
burst  the  cry,  ''Vive  la  France!"  The  regiment,  massed 
near  the  station,  salutes  us,  the  bayonets  glisten  in  the 
pale  autumn  sun  and  the  drums  and  bugles  sound  gaily. 
We  lean  far  out  of  the  windows  waving  our  kepis  joyously 
to  the  crowd.  The  train  moves  faster  and  faster  to  our 
unknown  destination.  Who  knows  where?  "  But  what  does 
it  matter?    It  is  for  our  country. 

"Wednesday,  September  28th — We  were  marched 
today  to  Dugny,  by  Verdun.  Our  adjutant  ordered  us 
to  descend  from  our  train  at  8  a.m.,  and  with  enthusiasm 
we  stepped  through  the  clear  morning  air  towards  our 
destination.  In  traversing  the  village  we  met  large 
Parisian  autobuses  heavily  ladened  with  meat  for  the 
ravitallement  of  our  troops;  it  was  droll  indeed  to 
see  the  great  vehicles  with  signs  ''Trocadero,  Odeon, 
Porte  Maillot,  Louvre,  Versailles,  etc.,  in  big  letters  here 
in  the  silence  of  the  Champagne  plains,  so  far  from  the 
crowded  Paris  streets,  where  before  the  war,  they  carried 
their  human  freight. 

"We  find  the  bridges  destroyed  everywhere,  so  to  cross 
the  streams  we  have  much  ado,  the  little  makeshifts  being 
very  shaky  and  uncertain.  We  see  many  things  of  interest 
in  our  march.  A  captive  balloon  balancing  in  the  blue  air 
above  a  hill  at  the  entrance  of  the  village  of  Rangiere. 
We  perceive  the  piteous  results  of  the  marmites  of  William, 
the  Kaiser,  vast  holes  of  great  circumference  everywhere. 
Even  as  we  arrived  we  heard  the  noise  of  two  huge  mar- 
mites which  burst  500  metres  from  us.    We  saw  a  great 


The  Sons  of  France  47 

black  smoke,  and  dirt  and  earth  springing  into  the  air. 
Then  our  great  cannons  answered,  our  75s  joined  the 
party,  five  minutes  of  cannonade  and  we  no  longer  heard 
the  shells  of  William. 

''We  were  then  allowed  a  short  rest  after  our  fifteen- 
mile  walk,  before  descending  to  the  village,  where  we  are 
now  resting  in  a  barn  with  some  Chasseurs  d'Afrique. 
They  are  good  comrades,  these  Chasseurs,  we  make 
friends  at  once,  and  have  much  to  say,  each  recounting 
his  thoughts  and  ideas  of  this  war. 

"Thursday,  September  29th — At  7  a.  m.,  we  left 
Rangiere  to  find  our  regiment.  We  met  a  Taube  flying 
above  our  heads.  Our  batteries  fired  on  it,  we  deploying 
to  offer  less  of  a  target.  Later  it  flew  towards  the  German 
lines,  and  my  company  reached  a  little  wood  where  we 
spent  the  night.  The  shells  whistled  over  our  heads  all 
the  time;  it  is  not  gay,  that  noise. 

'Triday,  September  30th — Our  BattaHon  has  24hours' 
rest.  The  shells  and  shrapnels  from  Germany  shriek  all 
day  and  all  night.  I  asked  if  these  were  the  big  ones.  A 
man  laughed  and  said  ''No,  mon  ami,  ce  sont  les  enfants." 
(No,  my  friend,  these  are  the  baby  ones.)  It  never  stops, 
this  cannonade  and  shooting. 

"Wednesday,  October  4th — We  are  since  four  days 
in  the  front  line,  in  the  trenches,  like  foxes  in  their  holes. 
The  French  and  German  shells  never  stop  howling  over 
our  heads.   On  all  sides,  noise!  noise!  noise! 

"Friday,  October  6th — We  are  of  the  reserve;  we 
leave  our  trenches  to  rest  back  yonder.  On  the  way  I 
saw  the  graves  of  two  French  soldiers,  two  crosses  of 
wood  at  their  heads.  Ah,  how  obscure,  but  how  noble,  these 
graves  of  two  sons  of  France,  fallen  on  the  field  of  honor. 

"Monday,  October  9th — We  are  back  in  the  trenches. 
A  funny  thing  has  happened.  Our  sergeant  hung  his 
flannel  shirt  on  the  parapet  of  the  trench  to  dry.   A  Ger- 


48  IVar  Days  in  Brittany 

man  shell  burst  at  50  metres.  He  ran  in  terror  to  save 
his  shirt.  'Ah!'  he  cried,  'that  would  be  too  much,  the 
dirty  Germans,  after  they  have  destroyed  the  Cathedral 
of  Reims,  they  want  to  burn  my  only  flannel  shirt.' 

"Tuesday,  October  10th — ^Went  to  the  trench  at  6 
o'clock.  At  7  o'clock  our  batteries  commenced  their  fire. 
Our  75'  swept  the  earth  for  80  metres  in  front  of  us,  the 
enemies'  cannonading  ceased.  Our  75'  redoubled  in 
speed;  we  could  hear  the  boches  howling  with  pain.  Then 
the  German  marmites  recommenced.  We  assisted  at  an 
artillery  duel  which  lasted  till  noon.  The  rest  of  the  day 
and  night  was  quiet. 

''Wednesday,  October  11th — ^We  left  this  morning 
at  6  A.  M.,  for  an  unknown  destination.  At  the  entrance 
of  the  wood  we  ate  our  'Soupe'  and  then  started  on  our 
route.  Adieu!  woods  of  the  Woevre,  we  have  not  been 
too  unhappy  in  thy  valleys  and  on  thy  hillsides,  although 
for  a  month  I  have  not  undressed.  In  the  trenches  we 
had  little  straw  and  no  warmth,  rain  and  cold  were  our 
constant  companions,  but  we  shall  still  regret  thee,  for 
we  may  find  much  worse  further  on." 

So  he  did  ...  He  found  his  death. 


Extracts  from  a  letter  written  to  his  family  by  a  sub- 
lieutenant from  the  battlefield  of  Champagne,  October 
23rd,  1915: 

"At  9  o'clock  we  were  all  assembled  on  the  first  line. 
Orders  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth.  Bayonets  are  fixed 
to  our  rifles,  each  looking  to  his  equipment,  paying  atten- 
tion to  the  last  detail.  Nothing  must  be  lacking  on  this 
momentous  day,  longingly  awaited  since  many  months. 
We  all  shake  hands,  some  even  embrace,  wishing  each 
other  good  luck;  some  with  eyes  brilliant  with  impatience. 


The  Sons  of  France  49 

await  the  longed-for  signal;  others,  calmer  perhaps, 
although  equally  eager,  polish  their  muskets  with  their 
handkerchiefs.  It  is  raining  heavily  and  mud  is  every- 
where, but  all  our  spirits  are  high.  9:15 — The  hour  has 
come!  The  artillery  increases  the  range  of  its  shells.  The 
first  wave  of  men  hurl  themselves  out  of  the  trenches. 
What  a  magnificent  moment.  A  rain  of  shells  falls  round, 
blowing  to  atoms  some  of  the  first  line  of  soldiers.  All 
along  our  immense  front  the  infantry  springs  from  the 
trenches,  the  bands  playing  shrilly  the  'Marseillaise.' 
The  bugle  and  the  drums  sound  the  charge.  A  roar  of 
voices  answer.  With  fixed  bayonets  we  rush  towards  the 
German  trenches,  while  their  mitrailleuses  mow  us  down. 
Our  way  is  strewn  already  with  corpses  and  wounded. 
Blood  lies  in  pools  or  soaks  in  streams  into  the  broken 
soil.  From  time  to  time  the  survivors  fling  themselves  on 
the  ground  to  escape  the  gale  of  shells.  Notwithstanding 
this  hell-fire,  or  the  sharpshooters,  we  press  through  the 
woods.  The  cannons!  The  cannons!  We  must  save  them! 
''All  of  us  understand  that  this  is  a  great  day  of  battle 
for  us  French.  We  must  win.  Without  hesitation,  we 
must  sacrifice  our  life  and  blood.  We  must  fight  to  our 
last  breath." 


Here  are  quoted  some  reports  made  by  the  commanders 
of  regiments  and  brigades.  Words  coming  often  from 
humble  mouths,  but  inspired  by  the  highest  patriotism: 

A  Colonial  infantryman  wounded  in  the  foot  in  the 
beginning  of  the  action  limped  to  a  'Toste  de  Secours" 
and  said,  "Here,  quick,  put  on  a  strong  bandage,  I  have 
only  killed  one  so  far.  I  am  wild  to  get  back."  He  was 
last  seen  cHmbing  frantically  up  the  slopes  of  "la  Main  de 
Massiges." 


50  War  Days  in  Brittany 

A  captain,  his  face  streaming  with  blood  from  a  ghastly 
wound,  refused  to  retire.  ''Today  one  pays  no  attention 
to  little  wounds,  it  is  only  death  that  will  stop  me  now!" 

A  boyish  lieutenant,  as  the  first  wave  of  men  swept  for- 
ward, shouted  to  his  command:  ''Allons,  Forward! 
Heads  up,  eyes  straight.  Fight!  Fight!!  Fight!!!  Today 
we  are  going  to  enjoy  ourselves.  We  are  going  to  protect 
the  sacred  soil  of  France."  He  fell  five  minutes  later. 

A  colonel  of  Colonial  infantry,  nick-named  the  bravest 
of  the  "Poilus,"  although  severely  wounded  in  the  head, 
pushed  forward  to  climb  the  ''Entonnoir"  of  the  crater. 
As  he  fell  he  shouted:  "Onward!  Onward,  my  brave  lads. 
I  would  lead  but  I  have  lost  too  much  blood.  You  are 
heroes  all.  En  avant  mes  enfants!"  ("Forward,  my  chil- 
dren, for  France!") 

Let  me  note  a  few  words  of  personal  experience :  It  was 
a  gray  cold  day  in  early  November.  The  little  ferry-boat 
which  runs  between  St.  Malo  and  Dinar d  tossed  heavily 
in  the  yellow-green  waves  rolling  in  from  the  channel. 
The  decks  were  awash  with  spume  and  water,  the  sharp 
north  wind  whistled  around  our  ears.  I  huddled  down 
in  the  corner  behind  the  pilothouse.  Nothing  but  necessity 
would  have  driven  me  forth  on  such  a  day,  but  when  one 
hears  of  130  wounded  arriving  the  day  before  in  a  remote 
convent  hospital,  one  puts  personal  comfort  aside  and 
goes  forth.  The  wind  was  piercing  and  brutal,  even  my 
fur  coat  was  a  poor  protection  against  this  bitter  assailant 
from  the  north.  Miserable  and  shivering  I  crouched  be- 
hind the  weak  shelter,  sincerely  wishing  I  had  never  come. 


The  Sons  of  France  51 

Suddenly  a  cheerful  voice  wished  me  ''Bon  Jour." 

A  Zouave,  baggy  trousers,  fez,  clear  bronze  complexion, 
aquiline  features,  flashing  eye,  stood  before  me. 

"Madame  will  permit  that  I  seat  myself  on  her  bench?" 
he  said. 

"But  certainly,"  I  replied,  looking  with  interest  at 
this  injured  youth  from  afar.  "Whence  came  you,  mon 
petit?"  ("my  little  one")  I  said,  "you  do  not  look  any  too 
strong  to  stand  this  winter  gale." 

"Quite  true,  Madame,"  he  replied,  "but  we  Zouaves 
are  accustomed  to  the  cold  and  storm." 

"But  surely  you  came  from  a  warm  country,  mon 
soldat?     The  Zouaves  are  from  Africa  are  they  not?" 

"True,  I  am  from  Tunis,"  he  replied. 

"On  such  a  day  you  must  long  for  your  country?"  I 
asked. 

"Helas,  oui.  The  orange  trees  are  forever  in  bloom  there, 
the  heliotrope  and  hibiscus  blossom  all  winter.  The  rose- 
scent  hangs  heavy  on  the  air,  there  in  my  home!  Even 
now  I  think  of  the  deep  blue  sky,  the  long  dusty  road 
leading  out  into  the  desert;  again  I  see  the  palms,  the 
cacti;  that  is,  if  I  close  my  eyes.  Sometimes  when  it  is 
dark  and  cold,  and  one  is  sad  in  the  trenches,  I  cannot 
help  wondering  if  ever  again  I  shall  sit  beneath  the 
awnings  of  the  Cafe  de  France,  or  shall  see  the  dusky 
women,  in  linen,  walking  to  the  fountain,  or  shall  smell 
the  dry  heavy  dust,  or  shall  sit  tranquilly  in  the  blazing 
sun  of  'La  Tunisie.'  Ah,  oui,  Madame,  all  that  is  many 
miles  away  from  this  cold,  gray  land  of  yours. 


52  War  Days  in  Brittany 

"But  at  the  front  that  was  another  story.  See,  I  have 
been  wounded  twice,  and  am  here  convalescing.  All  I 
dream  of  is  to  go  back  to  the  trenches.  Ours  is  at  Neuport. 
Only  1  metre  (13  feet)  separates  us  from  the  'boches,' 
they  call  to  us  often  from  their  side  (they  speak  good 
French,  too)  ordering  us  to  surrender  for  they  are  bound 
to  win,  and  we  are  only  losing  time.  We  answer,  too. 
We  give  them  something  to  think  about." 

'But  what  were  you  before  the  war,  soldier?"  I  asked. 
'An  antiquaire,  Madame.  I  sold  Persian  carpets,  brass 
lamps,  leather  goods  to  the  tourists  who  came  to  my 
beautiful  Tunisie." 

"What  will  you  do  afterwards,  my  soldier?" 

"That  is  as  God  wills,  madame.  Who  knows?  Can  I 
even  know  where  I  shall  be  a  week  hence?  All  I  want 
now  is  to  get  back  to  my  regiment.  To  the  front."  With 
a  military  salute  he  left  me. 

At  the  hospital  they  were  very  busy.  About  180  had 
just  arrived  from  the  great  battle  in  Champagne;  almost 
all  wounded  in  the  legs,  many  with  only  one  to  limp  on. 

"How  comes  it,"  I  asked,  "that  you  are  all  injured  in 
the  legs?" 

"That  is  simple,"  answered  a  cheery  looking  fellow, 
"the  boches  iust  turned  the  mitrailleuses  on  us,  like  a  man 
playing  a  hose  on  the  lawn,  but  low  down  you  see,  so  it 
caught  us  in  the  knees  mostly.  However,  we  have  hands 
and  arms  still — a  man  can  do  a  lot  with  them,  even  if 
he  must  have  false  legs  or  use  crutches." 

One  pale,  emaciated  fellow  said:     "Madame,  would 


The  Sons  of  France  53 

you  help  me  to  the  window  to  look  at  the  sea.  I  have 
never  seen  it,  and  since,  in  July,  I  was  wounded  with 
34  eclats  d'obus  (34  shell  wounds)  they  have  promised 
me,  I  should  come  to  that  great  wonder,  the  sea!" 

As  I  put  my  arm  under  his  skeleton  one,  felt  how  thin 
and  bony  it  was,  looked  at  his  poor  pale  young  face  and 
tried  to  realize  what  life  in  the  future  held  for  this  battered 
young  creature,  my  soul  felt  sick  within  me  at  all  this 
useless  waste  and  destruction.  He  did  not  complain,  this 
little  soldier.  He  only  wanted  to  look  on  the  cold  northern 
ocean,  which  he  had  never  before  seen.  The  future  was 
for  him  perhaps  as  gray,  as  cheerless,  as  sad,  but,  however 
despairing  his  thoughts  may  have  been,  he  did  not  speak 
them.  He  did  not  whimper.  Once  for  all  he  had  given  his 
all  for  France,  and  now  in  his  feebleness  he  counted  on 
kind  souls  to  help  him.  Hundreds,  nay  thousands  like 
him  exist  today,  all  over  this  sad  old  continent  of  Europe, 
vigorous  young  men  now  condemned  forever  to  the  dull 
and  painful  existence  of  a  cripple.  One  hears  on  all  sides 
of  the  courage  and  self-sacrifice  of  both  the  French  and 
English  Roman  Catholic  priests,  how  they  cheer  and 
encourage  the  men,  bringing  peace  to  the  dying,  nursing 
the  wounded,  holding  services  within  the  firing  line,  show- 
ing by  example  the  highest  patriotism. 

An  officer  belonging  to  Nantes,  in  a  letter  to  his  wife 
on  September  20th,  describes  a  moving  ceremony  he  had 
attended  that  morning: 

"At  8  o'clock  I  heard  a  Mass  said  by  the  chaplain  of 
the  — th  Territorials,  a  plank  had  been  nailed  up  between 


54  War  Days  in  Brittany 

two  trees,  and  behind  had  been  placed  some  leafy  branches 
the  best  that  our  men  could  do  under  the  circumstances. 
The  chaplain  began  by  addressing  us  a  few  words  in  which 
he  told  us  that  God  would  make  allowance  whilst  work 
was  being  done  for  France;  that  he  could  not  hear  all 
our  confessions,  and  that  we  should,  therefore,  make  an 
act  of  contrition  and  a  firm  purpose  of  confessing  our 
faults  as  soon  as  possible. 

"All  the  300  of  us  then  signed  that  we  wished  to  be 
included  in  the  general  absolution,  which  he  gave  us. 
After  he  exhorted  all  to  receive  the  Holy  Communion, 
which  he  would  give  us  as  he  passed  along  the  trenches. 
He  then  began  the  Mass,  which  was  served  by  a  lieutenant. 
Shells  were  bursting  over-head  as  the  Mass  continued 
and  during  his  short  address  after  the  Gospel.  Never 
had  I  heard  more  fervent  singing.  At  the  Communion 
half  of  our  number  went  up  to  the  altar  to  receive,  some 
with  tears  in  their  eyes,  what  was  to  many  their  Viaticum. 
The  ceremony  will  be  to  me  an  unforgetable  memory 
and  a  sweet  consolation." 

Let  me  quote  a  notice  from  the  Tablet  of  October  30th, 
about  an  English  priest.  The  following  account  of  the 
devotion  to  duty  shown  during  the  fighting  'round  Hill 
70,  by  Father  John  Gwynn,  S.  J.,  who  died  of  wounds 
received  in  a  dug-out,  is  given  in  a  letter  from  an  Irish 
Guardsman : 

''Father  Gwynn  was  known  among  the  boys  as  'the 
brave  little  priest.'  Early  in  the  war  he  was  seriously 
wounded  but  refused  to  return  to  England.  During  the 
terrible  fighting  recently.  Father  Gwynn  was  again  at 
his  post.  I  saw  him  just  before  he  died.  Shrapnel  and 
bullets  were  being  showered  upon  us  in  all  directions. 
Hundreds  of  our  lads  dropped.  Father  Gwynn  was  undis- 


The  Sons  of  France  55 

mayed,  he  seemed  to  be  all  over  the  place  trying  to  give 
the  last  sacrament  to  the  dying.  Once  I  thought  he  was 
buried  alive,  for  a  shell  exploded  within  a  few  yards  of 
where  he  was,  and  the  next  moment  I  saw  nothing  but  a 
great  heap  of  earth.  The  pUght  of  the  wounded  con- 
cealed beneath  was  harrowing.  Out  of  the  ground  came 
cries,  'Father!  Father!  Father!'  from  those  who  were  in 
their  death  agonies. 

"Then,  as  if  by  a  miracle.  Father  Gwynn  was  seen  to 
fight  his  way  through  the  earth.  He  must  have  been 
severely  wounded,  but  he  went  on  blessing  the  wounded 
and  hearing  their  confessions.  The  last  I  saw  of  him  he 
was  kneeling  by  the  side  of  a  German  soldier.  It  was  a 
scene  to  make  you  cry.  The  shells  continued  to  explode 
about  the  wounded,  but  they  could  not  stop  a  little 
English  priest  from  doing  his  duty,  even  to  a  dying  Ger- 
man." 

One  more  item  to  add  to  these  vignettes  of  our  soldiers. 
I  have  told  you  of  the  volunteer,  the  lieutenant,  the 
zouave  and  the  priests.  Now  of  a  soldier  (by  profession) 
of  the  Colonial  infantry.  He  had  served  nine  years,  hav- 
ing received  two  medals  for  the  Moroccan  campaign. 

Last  October,  the  30th,  a  very  dangerous  reconnais- 
sance was  necessary  before  a  certain  action  in  the  Argonne. 
The  colonel  called  for  volunteers.  Petit  immediately 
volunteered.  He  was  given  ten  men,  warned  of  the 
desperate  nature  of  his  work,  and  wished  God-speed.  The 
Germans  were  supposed  to  be  intrenched  behind  a  small 
wood  over  the  crest  of  a  hill  There  was  a  long  slope  to 
climb,  a  road  to  cross,  another  abrupt  ascent  to  the  wood. 

It  was  brilliant  moonlight.  The  men  crept  forward, 
seeking  every  shadow  or  bush  or  hollow  to  cover  them. 


56  War  Days  in  Brittany 

They  had  cHmbed  the  first  slope,  crossed  the  road  and 
were  well  up  the  second  hill  when  they  were  suddenly 
swept  by  German  rifle  fire. 

Petit  glanced  behind.  All  but  two  were  lying  bleeding 
and  dead.  He  called  to  the  other  two  to  race  back  to 
their  trenches,  if  possible,  but  he  himself  continued  to 
creep  through  the  straggling  undergrowth  up  the  crest. 
After  some  minutes,  having  discovered  what  he  came  to 
seek,  the  position  and  force  of  the  enemy,  he  hastily 
retreated  down  the  hill.  Of  the  two  survivors,  one  had 
already  cleared  the  road  and  escaped.  The  other  was 
lying,  a  moaning  heap,  on  the  white  moonlit  highway. 

The  Germans  were  firing  at  his  flying  figure,  but  a  few 
steps  more  and  he  would  have  crossed  the  road — when 
he  fell.  Presently  he  picked  himself  up.  One  eye  was 
gone,  the  blood  streaming  down  his  cheeks.  But  he 
determined,  as  he  said,  to  revenge  his  comrades  and  him- 
self. Staggering  to  the  road  he,  with  great  difficulty, 
dragged  his  wounded  companion  off  the  road  and  to  the 
shelter  of  some  bushes.  Fortunately,  at  that  moment, 
a  cloud  passed  over  the  moon,  and  they  were  able  to  lie 
hidden  for  a  while.  Then,  with  many  struggles,  he  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  his  one  remaining  companion  on  his 
shoulders,  and  dragged  himself  back  to  the  French  lines. 
His  information  was  of  importance,  but  he  did  not  know  of 
it,  for  he  lost  consciousness  immediately  on  delivering  it. 

The  next  day  his  company  went  into  action  and  was 
annihilated.  Of  the  200  men,  he  and  the  man  whose  life 
he  saved  were  the  only  survivors. 


The  Sons  of  France  57 

Months  afterward  I  was  able  to  welcome  this  gallant 
son  of  France  back  to  Dinard.  He  is  my  maid's  only 
brother,  and  the  night  he  arrived  we  had  a  fitting  supper 
awaiting  him.  My  brother  and  I,  and  my  cheery  little 
French  maid  drank  his  health  and  listened  to  this  story 
from  his  own  lips.  I  am  happy  to  say  he  is  strong  and 
well  and  active,  and  makes  light  of  the  wound. 

"After  all,  Madame,"  he  said,  ''a  man  can  see  all  he 
wants  with  one  eye,  and  if  later  I  find  some  pretty  girl 
to  marry  me,  she  may  find  that  one  eye  wiU  see  only  good 
in  her,  whereas,  perhaps,  as  the  years  went  by,  I  might 
have  perceived,  with  two  eyes,  some  faults." 

One  fine  day  this  autumn  I  was  invited  to  a  little 
ceremony.  The  general  commanding  this  region,  sur- 
rounded by  the  pickets,  the  soldiers  able  to  hobble  about, 
the  Red  Cross  nurses,  and  some  of  Petit's  personal  friends. 
It  was  to  decorate  him  for  conspicuous  bravery  under  fire. 
The  bugle  shrilled  loudly,  an  adjutant  read  the  official 
announcement,  the  general  stepped  up  and  pinned  on 
Petit's  breast  the  Medaille  Militaire  and  the  Croix  de 
Guerre.  Thus  France  recognizes  and  rewards  her  valiant 
soldiers. 

October,  1915. 


HAIL  TO  THE  DEAD! 


HAIL  TO  THE  DEAD! 

(Salid  Aux  Mortsl) 

How  many  sad  hearts  are  in  France  this  night  of  the 
Jour  des  Marts  (All  Soul's  Day),  in  this  third  dolorous 
year  of  the  Great  War?  All  over  the  country,  from  earli- 
est hours,  thousands  upon  thousands  of  black-clad 
mourners  have  placed  their  homage  of  respect  and  love 
on  the  tombs  of  those  who  have  died  in  the  past  twelve 
months.  Churches  held  constant  services,  chants  and 
prayers  rose  in  unbroken  succession;  bells  tolled,  people 
flocked  to  the  cemeteries;  everywhere  the  "soul  of  the 
French"  has  been  in  communion  with  its  dead  and  this 
great  national  and  religious  festival  has  been  observed  as 
never  before. 

In  Paris  and  its  suburbs  nearly  a  million  accomplished 
this  sacred  duty.  Every  town  and  village  was  filled  with 
sorrowing  throngs.  Seeing  all  this  desolation  and  sadness, 
one  wonders  how  they  can  so  steadfastly  look  forward  to 
another  year  of  war. 

When  one  remembers  how  many  beautiful  lives  have 
been  sacrificed  in  the  last  twelve  months,  how  much  of 
talent,  art,  intellect  and  science  has  been  ruthlessly 
destroyed  when  these  promising  men  died,  does  it  seem 
strange  that  the  whole  nation  has  gone  forth  to  honor 
their  dead?  How  many  young  fellows,  just  leaving  the 
Lyc^e  thoroughly  prepared  by  years  of  hard  study  to 
accomplish  great  things  in  their  chosen  profession,  have 
been  wounded,  or  killed,  or  maimed?    What  humanity 

[611 


62  War  Days  in  Brittany 

has  lost  will  never  be  known,  but  that  the  loss  is  stupen- 
dous is  acknowledged  by  everyone. 

Each  man  and  woman  has  someone  to  grieve  for 
tonight.  Countless  young  widows  are  facing  the  future, 
deprived  forever  of  the  companionship  of  their  help- 
mates, some  so  young  as  to  have  had  only  a  few  months 
happiness.  To  how  many  childish  eyes  is  shown  (in  tears 
and  sorrow)  the  photograph  of  le  pere  mort  pour  la  patrie 
(the  father  who  died  for  his  country).  Poor  little  ones, 
they  will  never  know  his  loving  care,  his  solicitude  for 
their  welfare,  his  devoted  protection.  To  them  he  will 
always  be  a  wonderful  heroic  being,  remote  and  imperson- 
al, who  cannot  share  their  little  pleasures  and  troubles, 
can  never  play  with  them  or  be  their  friend ! 

The  poor  old  fathers  and  mothers,  how  bent  and  tragic 
they  are !  All  they  cherished  on  earth  has  gone !  Slowly 
and  painfully  they  move  amongst  the  be-flowered  graves, 
and  life  holds  no  further  happiness  for  them.  Let  me 
describe  the  procession  as  it  passed  on  the  way  to  the 
burying  ground.  First  came  the  school  children  in  two 
long  files  on  either  side  of  the  boulevard,  leaving  the  center 
free,  the  little  boys  walking  two  by  two,  clutching  their 
sprays  of  chrysanthemums,  gay  and  laughing  as  if  on  a 
frolic,  but  sobering  suddenly  when  the  teacher's  eye 
veered  in  their  direction;  following  them  a  hundred  little 
girls,  much  more  demure,  stepping  daintily,  well  clad, 
even  the  poorest  putting  on  their  best  for  this  great 
national  fete. 

The  Mayor  is  escorted  on  either  side  by  the  French  and 


Procession  on  the  Way  to  the  Cemetery 


'  f » 


French  Cemeteries  Decorated  on  the    ".lour  ilcs  Morts" 


Hail  to  the  Dead  I  63 

Belgian  * 'Commandants  de  Place,"  one  in  Belgian  khaki 
and  the  other  in  horizon-blue,  (the  latter  limping  badly, 
a  hero  from  Verdun  where  he  won  the  Croix  de  Guerre 
and  the  Medalle  Militaire),  the  doctors  in  uniform  and 
the  Red  Cross  nurses  whose  white  dresses,  blue  caps  and 
veils  add  a  note  of  color,  and  present  a  cheering  appear- 
ance in  contrast  to  the  convalescing  Belgians  who  follow, 
very  sombre,  in  their  black  uniforms  and  black  caps. 

Two  hundred-odd  Frenchmen,  striding  after  them,  are 
very  different  in  appearance  and  behavior.  The  Belgians 
are  gloomy  and  taciturn,  moving  along  in  silent  ranks; 
the  Frenchmen,  on  the  contrary,  are  full  of  life  and  nerve 
(their  wounds  notwithstanding),  attired  in  delicious 
shades  of  blues  and  reds  and  creamy-white — the  light 
blue  of  the  Hussars,  the  darker  shades  of  the  Chasseurs 
Alpins,  the  brilliant  Zouaves,  the  red  trousers  of  the 
Fantassians;  even  the  black-faced  scarlet-clad  Senegalais 
give  a  lively  note,  for  these  men  are  convalescing,  and  old 
clothes  are  good  enough,  their  new  horizon-blue  uniforms 
being  kept  for  their  return  to  the  front. 

A  very  pleasant  crowd  they  form,  with  an  eye  towards 
the  pretty  Bretonne  in  her  peasant  coiffe  and  costume, 
with  a  laugh  for  a  comrade,  and  a  merry  word  for  the 
bystander.  Behind  these  plucky  fellows  (perhaps  on  the 
battlefield  tomorrow)  come  the  townspeople  and  peasants 
from  the  neighboring  country.  The  procession  moves  on 
to  the  cemetery,  where  prayers  and  speeches,  patriotic 
and  religious,  are  made,  wreaths  placed  on  the  little 
wooden  crosses.    White-coiffed  heads  are  bowed  in  silent 


64  War  Days  in  Brittany 

communion,  and  over  all  tolls  the  solemn  notes  of  the 
church  bell. 

All  over  France  today  there  has  been  a  great  coming 
and  going.  Flowers  are  placed  lovingly  and  regretfully 
on  the  mounds.  But  to  how  many,  even  this  last  service 
is  denied,  for  the  northern  battlefields  hide  many  unknown 
graves.  Only  in  spirit  can  these  afilicted  ones  visit  the 
last  resting-place  of  father,  husband,  son,  or  fiance.  But 
who  shall  say  that  the  great  army  of  heroic  souls,  so 
lately  passed  over,  are  not  present,  consoling  and  com- 
forting by  their  spiritual  presence,  their  grieving  people? 
The  French  have  often  been  considered  a  frivolous  race, 
but  no  one  who  has  seen  the  solemn  way  in  which  they 
fulfil  this  pious  duty  can  ever  believe  it  again. 

"One  could  kneel  before  our  soldiers,"  said  one  of  our 
great  chiefs  in  one  of  the  most  tragic  moments  in  the  long 
agonizing  siege  before  Verdun.  In  face  of  the  most  violent 
attacks,  under  the  infernal  bombardment,  such  acts  of 
heroism  and  self-sacrifice  and  devotion  took  place,  that 
one  realized  how  deep  is  their  sense  of  duty,  and  how 
great  their  determination,  expressed  in  their  own  battle- 
cry,  '^They  shall  not  get  through."    {Us  ne  passer ons  pasl) 

This  same  martial  spirit  is  found  all  along  the  line. 
What  can  be  more  novel  and  inspiring  than  the  aviators 
who  fight  their  fantastic  duels  3000  metres  above  the 
earth?  Again,  the  sangfroid,  the  supreme  devotion  of 
the  artillery,  who  amidst  apalling  losses  and  the  heaviest 
bombardment,  stick  to  their  posts,  regulating  their  fire 
and  working  their  guns,   taking  every  risk  without  a 


Hail  to  the  Dead!  65 

moment's  hesitation.  The  infantry,  that  backbone  of  the 
army  with  their  "elan"  carry  forward  the  banner  of 
France  or  die  heroically  in  no-man's  land. 

In  every  attack,  glorious  acts  are  done,  often  by  the 
humblest  of  soldiers,  whose  abnegation  and  modesty  is 
only  equalled  by  their  scorn  of  death!  One  is  amazed  at 
this  wonderful  state  of  mind.  Men  of  all  ages  and  all 
conditions  excel  in  these  heroic  qualities.  Fathers  of 
families,  who  know  how  anxiously  they  are  awaited  in 
the  home;  young  men,  with  the  call  of  life  ringing  in  their 
ears,  go  gaily  into  the  combat — they  have  counted  the 
cost — and  lay  down  their  lives  with  simplicity  and  dignity; 
with  no  other  thought  than  their  duty  to  their  country; 
with  no  other  ambition  than  "to  be  there  when  we  get 
them  {d'etre  la  quand  on  les  aura).'* 

Pessimists  and  pacifists  will  say,  "Oh,  yes,  that  is  very 
noble,  very  sublime;  but  when  the  heat  of  the  battle  is 
past,  when  excitement  and  furor  has  disappeared,  what 
is  left  to  the  poor  fellows,  suffering  from  wounds,  fever 
and  pain?  They  must  be  greatly  disillusioned  then,  these 
gay  soldiers."  Yet  he  who  speaks  thus,  let  him  go  to  any 
ward  in  any  of  the  great  hospitals  in  Paris  or  elsewhere 
and  there  receive  his  answer.  Here  is  a  soldier  of  the 
class  of  1914.  When  he  left  for  the  war,  his  family  was 
in  easy  circumstances.  His  father  a  well-to-do  merchant, 
his  mother  and  sisters  lived  comfortably  and  happily  in 
their  charming  home.  Since  then  the  father  has  died, 
poverty  came,  his  sisters  now  are  working  for  their  liv- 
ing, supporting   the   mother,  and  he,  young,  vigorous. 


66  War  Days  in  Brittany 

intelligent,  and  well-educated,  who  in  ordinary  times 
would  have  replaced  the  father,  has  received  a  terrific 
wound  in  the  head,  and  is  blind  for  life. 

Does  he  whimper  or  complain?  Hear  his  answer:  "I 
ought  to  have  been  killed"  he  said  pleasantly,  "when  they 
drew  the  bullet  from  my  head.  I  might  have  remained  an 
idiot  or  an  epileptic,  but,  thank  God,  I  am  getting  better 
and  better,  and  I  shall  learn  a  trade.  I  am  told  there  are 
good  ones  for  the  blind  and  I  shall  help  support  my  dear 
ones." 

Here  again  is  a  lad,  a  young  soldier  of  the  last  class  of 
1916  sent  to  the  front.  He  is  almost  a  child,  but  he  has 
the  patience  and  courage  of  a  man.  A  terrible  wound  in 
the  spine,  cutting  it  open  to  the  marrow,  did  not  cause  him 
to  despair.  To  his  weeping  parents  he  said:  ''Don't  weep, 
dearest  mother,  I  shall  recover,  I  shall  get  well,  I  shall 
go  home  with  you,  to  be  your  little  boy  again,"  and  in 
panting  voice  he  went  on  to  praise  the  skill  of  the  doctors, 
the  tenderness  of  the  infirmiere,  saying,  ''Yes,  she  hurts 
me  terribly  at  times,  so  I  must  cry  out,  but  she  is  so  good, 
so  kind,  I  forgive  her  when  the  dressing  is  over." 

Further  on,  a  man  with  a  shattered  shoulder  suffers 
atrociously,  but  tells  me  with  a  cheerful  grin  that  he  is 
glad  to  have  seen  it,  to  have  found  himself  surrounded  by 
Germans  with  raised  arms  shouting  "Kamerad!"  One 
of  the  lady  visitors  offering  to  be  his  amanuensis  (as  he 
cannot  write),  he  accepted  with  joy,  and  then,  blushing, 
said:  "But  you  see,  Madame,  it  is  a  bit  difl&cult,  I  am 
accustomed  to  calling  my  wife  by  a  pet  name;  if  I  began 


Hail  to  the  Dead  I  67 

my  letter  otherwise  she  would  not  believe  it  was  from 


me." 


*'Yes,  and  how  do  you  wish  it  to  begin?"  asked  the  lady. 

"Well,  Madame,  I  always  called  her  'my  little  Rat'." 

"All  right,  here  goes  for  *my  little  Rat'." 

One  jnore  instance :   A  pale,  emaciated  man  of  middle 

age,  with  both  hands  amputated,  suffering  a  martyrdom 

without  a  murmur,  without  a  reference  to  what  happened 

to  him  on  the  battlefield,  accepts  with  gentle  pohteness 

the  cakes  and  chocolates  offered  to  him.    Seeing  a  large 

letter  on  his  bed,  I  asked  if  he  had  news  from  home.  "No, 

madame,  it  is  from  the  government  announcing  that  I  am 

decorated  with  the  Medaille  Militaire  and  the  Croix  de 

Guerre.  Please  read  it  to  me."  "N ,  cannon-servant, 

was  admirable  for  devotion  and  sang  froid;  when  a  shell 
wrecked  his  cannon  and  killed  all  his  companions,  severely 
wounded  himself  in  both  hands,  he  remained  at  his  post 
alone,  notwithstanding  his  atrocious  pain,  to  guard  the 
remains  of  his  companions  and  his  cannon." 

To  people  upheld  by  such  ideals,  inspired  with  such 
patriotism,  to  whom  France  means  all  that  is  sacred  and 
beautiful,  "defeat  cannot  come."  Until  the  detested 
enemy  has  been  thrown  across  the  Rhine,  no  suggestion 
of  peace  would  be  welcome;  they  will  even  call  on  the 
dead  to  defend  their  beloved  land,  as  witnessed  in  the 
following  story,  vouched  for  by  General  Zurlinden,  from 
whom  I  have  also  obtained  some  of  the  above  facts: 

It  would  interest  all  men  to  know  how  the  now  famous 
cry,  "Stand  Up,  You  Dead!"  was  first  shouted  forth.  On 


68  War  Days  in  Brittany 

April  8th,  1915,  Adjutant  Pericard,  acting  lieutenant  of 
the  95th  Regiment  of  Infantry,  found  himself  in  a  perilous 
position.  A  trench  having  been  taken  the  day  before  by 
the  1st  and  3rd  Batallions  was  the  object  of  a  violent 
counter-attack,  the  occupants  were  withdrawing,  and  the 
trench  on  the  point  of  being  taken  by  the  enemy.  Lieu- 
tenant Pericard  was  in  reserve,  but  seeing  how  badly 
things  were  going  called  for  volunteers,  and  with  his  little 
band  rushed  to  arrest  the  enemy.  He  succeeded  in  retak- 
ing the  trench,  but  feeling  himself  abandoned,  he  looked 
back  and  saw  only  dead  and  wounded,  not  another  man 
on  his  feet.  It  was  then  he  shouted  his  famous  war-cry: 
''Stand  Up,  You  Dead!" 

Dinar d,  November  1st,  1916. 


A  RED  CROSS  HOSPITAL 
IN  BRITTANY 


A  RED  CROSS  HOSPITAL 
IN  BRITTANY 

I 

Within  the  walls  of  this  cool,  tranquil  place 

Lie  wounded  men  from  Northern  battlefields; 
With  shattered  limb,  with  wan  and  pain-streaked  face  y 

Safely  they  rest;  they  whom  the  Red  Cross  shields! 
The  roar  of  gun,  the  shriek  of  bomb  and  shell. 

The  shrapnel  hissing  through  the  awful  din, 
Are  silenced  here.     A  nearby  chapel  bell 

Strikes  the  calm  hours.     Quietly  within 
The  restful  rooms  the  men  lift  up  their  eyes. 
To  that  small  crimson  cross  afloat  in  peaceful  skies. 

II 

From  rain-filled  trench,  from  bare  and  blood-soaked 
ground. 

Where  in  low  piles  the  dead  and  dying  lie — 
{The  mitrailleuse  has  swept  each  ridge  and  mound 

Where  Frenchmen  rushed  to  conquer  or  to  die) 
They  bring  them  to  us — broken,  crippled  boys. 

White  as  the  linen  bands  around  the  head. 
And  some  may  live.     To  some  life's  hopes  and  joys 

Are  growing  dim — Unto  the  glorious  dead 
Their  souls  depart.    Ah!  God  will  speed  them  well. 
These  gallant  men  who  for  their  country  fell. 


[71] 


72  JVar  Days  in  Brittany 

III 

From  the  White  Alps  up  to  the  gray  North  Sea^ 

Along  the  Somme  and  Meuse  the  Army  holds; 
Calm  in  the  certitude  of  Victory — 

They  see  her  shining  on  their  banner's  folds. 
These  injured  boys  have  helped  to  do  this  deed. 

Their  strength  and  youth  were  gladly  offered  here. 
That  their  dear  land  might  once  again  be  freed 

From  the  black  curse  of  war,  and  grief,  and  fear. 
When  Peace  returns,  let  their  great  sacrifice 
Remain  forever  holy  in  our  eyes. 

August,  1916. 


THE  CASTLE  OF  COMBOURG 


b£ 


O 


Q 


03 


o 
O 


THE  CASTLE  OF  COMBOURG 


The  September  morning  was  crystal-clear.  The  old 
fortifications  at  St.  Malo,  violet  in  shadow,  lay  wrapped 
in  sunlight  as  from  the  crest  of  the  hill  we  turned  for  a 
farewell  glimpse  of  Dinard  and  the  sea,  before  turning 
eastward  on  our  long  proposed  trip  to  some  Brittany 
hospitals. 

Our  motor  was  packed  in  every  corner  with  hospital 
supplies — tins  of  ether,  rolls  of  absorbent  cotton,  hun- 
dreds of  compresses  and  bandages,  surgical  supplies  and 
instruments,  cigars,  cigarettes,  chocolate,  hospital-shirts 
and  slippers,  sponges,  socks — all  we  could  think  of,  cap- 
able of  mending  the  broken  bodies  or  healing  the  spirits 
of  those  brave  poilus  we  were  to  visit  in  various  hospitals 
during  the  next  few  days. 

The  motor  looked  top-heavy,  with  great  hampers  strap- 
ped on  its  roof,  as  we  (my  husband,  the  singer  and  I) 
squeezed  ourselves  in  between  the  bulky  supplies,  but  in 
these  days  of  almost  priceless  tires  and  rare  gasoline  one 
must  manage  with  little  personal  pretentions  to  comfort. 
The  first  place  of  call  was  the  Chateau  of  Combourg. 
As  we  bowled  along  roads  now  much  in  need  of  repair 
after  three  years  of  forced  neglect,  we  recalled  something 
of  its  history. 

The  vast  pile,  buried  in  its  own  forests,  was  built,  before 
the  Norman  Conquest,  of  immense  blocks  of  granite 
hewn  from  nearby  quarries;  its  five  great  towers,  with 

[  75  ] 


76  War  Days  in  Brittany 

deep  slate  roofs,  ornamented  with  forged  iron  "grilles" 
and  weathervanes,  its  massive  keep,  its  crenelated  walls 
and  outlying  bastions,  have  apparently  withstood  the 
vicissitudes  of  centuries.  Wars,  revolution,  fire,  siege, 
storms,  have  left  it  unharmed.  As  we  approached,  the 
castle  loomed  up  above  the  surrounding  groves,  looking 
much  as  it  must  have  appeared  to  the  Crusaders  as  they 
left  its  doors  for  the  Holy  Land. 

We  rolled  through  a  sordid  village  lying  at  its  base, 
and  soon  stopped  before  an  iron  gate  in  a  high  stone  wall 
for  the  concierge  to  open,  and  then  a  lovely  scene  met  our 
eyes. 

Great  avenues  of  oaks  and  chestnuts  stretched  in  all 
directions,  interspersed  with  long  stretches  of  greensward 
and  clumps  of  bushes.  It  required  slight  imagination  to 
see  Robin  Hood  and  his  men,  or  catch  a  glimpse  of  them 
fleeting  through  the  sun-wrapped  distance — or  hear  their 
horns  sounding  in  the  forest. 

The  young  chatelaine  was  awaiting  us  at  the  head  of 
a  great  flight  of  stone  steps,  "I'escaher  d'honneur,"  large 
and  broad  enough  for  a  regiment  to  ascend.  The  draw- 
bridge and  moat,  formerly  occupying  this  side,  were  re- 
moved by  order  of  Cardinal  Richelieu,  who,  fearing  the 
belligerent  spirit  of  the  Brittany  nobles,  and  determined 
to  destroy  their  feudal  privileges  for  all  time,  conceived 
the  idea  of  turning  their  castle-fortresses  into  harmless 
country-houses,  and  they,  themselves,  into  extravagant 
courtiers. 

For  two  and  one-half  years  these  walls  have  sheltered 


Interior  of  Castle— The  Chatelaine  and  a  Few  of  the  Wounded 


Group  in  Front  of  Castle 


The  Castle  of  Combourg-  77 

wounded  from  the  battlefields  of  Picardie  and  Lorraine, 
nursed  back  to  health  by  the  Comtesse  who,  as  "infirmiere 
Majeure,"  does  all  the  dressing  of  wounds  herself — 50 
beds  in  all.  She  has  three  assistant  nurses  and  a  doctor, 
but  all  the  expense  of  this  private  hospital  is  borne  by  the 
Comte  and  Comtesse  de  Durfort.  No  small  item,  when 
everything  has  doubled  in  price,  and  hospital  supplies, 
as  well  as  food,  are  necessarily  difficult  to  obtain.  The 
question  of  lighting  and  heating  alone  is  a  hard  one.  No 
coal  to  be  found  anywhere,  so  trees  are  sacrificed  in  the 
Park.  Candles  and  kerosene  lamps  being  the  only  way 
of  lighting,  these  immense  halls  must  be  gloomy  and 
depressing  enough  in  the  long  dark  afternoons  of  winter, 
with  the  wind  howling  around  the  towers  and  the  rain 
lashing  the  casements. 

The  great  dining-room  and  salons  (in  feudal  times  the 
"Salle  des  Gardes")  have  been  turned  into  dormitories, 
white  cots  stand  in  rows  beneath  the  painted  beams  of 
the  ceilings;  frescoed  knights,  bishops  and  ladies  gaze 
down  from  the  lofty  walls  on  the  broken  soldiers  of  today; 
hooded  chimneys  of  stone,  heavily  carved  with  armorial 
bearings,  still  burn,  in  their  black  depths,  logs  from  the 
neighboring  forest.  Through  cross-barred  windows,  cut 
in  eighteen  feet  of  masonry,  one  catches  glimpses  of  white 
and  blue  skies,  of  seas  of  verdant  leaves,  of  sunlight  glint- 
ing on  yellow  lichen  roofs  far  below.  A  pale  blue  smoke 
drifts  upward,  the  voices  of  children,  the  clang  of  forge, 
the  lowing  of  cattle  in  the  market  place,  sound  faintly 
through  the  autumn  air,  and  gazing  downwards  from  this 


78  War  Days  in  Brittany 

elevation,  one  realizes  vaguely  how  great  was  the  distance, 
socially  and  morally,  separating  in  the  middle  ages  the 
serf  from  his  overlord! 

After  a  most  excellent  luncheon  of  chicken  "en  cas- 
serole," venison,  fresh  vegetables  and  salads,  a  pastry 
and  some  fine  Burgandy  (all  furnished  by  the  estate, 
except  the  wine),  the  host  and  hostess,  the  singer,  my 
husband  and  I,  climbed  around  the  upper  turrets,  gazed 
down  through  the  ''Machiacoli"  whence  boiling  oil  was 
hurled  on  the  besieger  in  the  Dark  Ages,  scrambled 
through  low  stone  arches,  up  corkscrew-stairs  to  the  bed- 
room of  the  famous  Comte  de  Chateaubriand,  great- 
uncle  of  the  present  owner,  and  from  whom  she  inherited 
the  property.  Here  he  spent  his  lonely  childhood,  full 
of  dreams  and  fears;  in  one  of  his  books,  complaining  of 
the  bats  circling  and  flapping  outside  his  window,  in  the 
moonlight,  around  this  white-washed  room  high  up  in 
this  silent  tower !  What  a  dreary  abode  for  an  imaginative 
boy! 

Down  the  turning  staircase,  where  an  ancestral  ghost 
with  a  wooden  leg  and  accompanied  by  a  spectral  cat 
"walks"  before  any  disaster  comes  to  the  family,  we  came 
to  the  Poet's  Library,  a  circular  room,  lined  from  floor 
to  ceiling  with  books,  as  well  as  many  unbound  manu- 
scripts. A  ladder  on  runners  can  be  pushed  around  to 
reach  the  higher  rows.  Here  are  many  family  relics;  a 
comfortable  oak  armchair  and  table  before  the  open  fire- 
place, where  Chateaubriand  wrote  many  of  his  world- 
renowned  books. 


The  Castle  ofCombourg-  79 

On  returning  to  one  of  the  salons,  we  found  some  thirty- 
five  wounded  awaiting  the  little  concert  we  had  arranged 
for  them.  Some  village  notables,  the  mayor,  the  cure,  the 
postmaster  and  a  few  elderly  neighbors,  were  amongst 
them. 

The  singer.  Miss  Marion  Gregory,  of  New  York,  con- 
fided to  me  afterwards  that  she  was  so  overcome,  facing 
those  poor  wounded  fellows,  especially  the  bUnd  with 
their  sightless  eyes  turned  towards  her,  that  her  voice 
seemed  to  die  in  her  throat ;  but  the  singer  was  new  to  all 
the  pain  and  sorrow,  having  only  just  come  from  ''God's 
Country."  She  said  she  had  faced  many  large  audiences 
in  America,  but  never  with  so  many  qualms.  The  soldiers, 
however,  ignoring  this,  sat  in  blissful  attention,  enjoying 
every  note  of  her  lovely  voice,  and  heartily  applauding. 
The  postmaster  then  recited  some  stirring  French  poetry, 
then,  rising,  we  all  sang  the  "Marseillaise.'^  One  poor 
blind  boy,  with  tears  streaming  down,  said  to  me:  "Oh, 
Madame,  I  am  so  sad,  I  have  no  longer  eyes  to  see  to 
fight  to  avenge  the  wrongs  of  my  beloved  France." 

A  "gouter"  served  in  the  dining-hall  made  us  all  very 
cheerful.  Speeches  were  made,  hands  shaken,  toasts 
drunk,  in  that  excellent  wine  of  Champagne  to  "la  Vic- 
toire,"  and  to  the  intimacy  of  France  and  the  United 
States. 

The  Comte  and  his  beautiful  wife,  surrounded  by  their 
"blesses,"  bade  us  farewell  at  the  foot  of  the  "escalier 
d'honneur;"  the  castle  behind  them  looming  gray  and 
forbidding  against  the  evening  sky.   The  sun,  gilding  the 


80  War  Days  in  Brittany 

crests  of  the  chestnuts  and  oaks  and  glinting  on  the  tri- 
color, the  Red  Cross  flag  and  the  family  banner  hanging 
limply  in  the  lambent  air,  sent  its  flood  of  red  over  the 
little  group. 

As  we  waved  goodbye,  we  felt  how  intimately  the  past 
and  present  are  related.  How  great  traditions  never  die, 
but  repeat  themselves  in  national  life  from  generation  to 
generation.  The  high  caring  for  the  humble,  the  rich  for 
the  poor.  How  love  of  country  wipes  out  all  distinctions 
of  caste,  making  France  what  she  is  today,  the  world's 
example  of  sacrifice,  devotion  and  patriotism. 

September,  1916. 


A  BELGIAN  ROMANCE 


/ 


/TW^^      ^£- 


•r- 


A  BELGIAN  ROMANCE 


She  was  a  slender,  graceful  creature;  tall,  blond,  highbred; 
so  young  and  so  good-looking,  one  wondered  how  she  was 
able  to  escape  from  Belgium  without  unheard-of  diffi- 
culties from  those  brutes  of  Germans;  but  here  she  was, 
that  cold  February  night,  coming  to  Val  Fleuri  with  a 
pitiful  handful  of  luggage,  a  great  courage,  and  soul- 
racking  remembrances. 

A  mutual  friend  had  months  ago  told  me  of  her  tragic 
experiences  and  her  keen  desire  to  escape  from  the  Ger- 
man tyranny  in  Belgium,  so  we  originated  a  scheme 
(through  a  Belgian  consul  in  Switzerland)  by  which  she 
was  to  travel  via  Germany  to  Switzerland,  thence  to 
France  where  she  would  sign  on  as  a  regular  Red  Cross 
nurse. 

Poor  girl!  Her  life  in  Namur  had  been  so  tragic,  it 
was  extraordinary  she  had  the  courage  to  undertake 
alone  a  long  journey,  in  the  depth  of  winter,  through 
enemy  country,  going  voluntarily  into  exile  for  an  indefi- 
nite period,  with  no  one  to  turn  to  in  case  of  trouble  or 
sickness,  entirely  dependent  on  her  meager  Red  Cross 
pay,  frcs  2.50  (50  cents)  a  day — board  and  lodging  alone 
being  provided  by  the  hospital. 

She  remained  a  number  of  months  in  Val  Fieuri  as  our 
guest,  and  little  by  little,  as  her  reserve  wore  off,  the  tale 
of  the  actual  horror  of  her  life  under  the  German  yoke 
came  out,  and  I  was  able  to  understand  the  motive  which 

183] 


84  IVar  Days  in  Brittany 

drove  her,  a  beautiful  girl  of  twenty-seven,  into  France, 
facing  an  unknown  future  and  a  hard  present,  rather  than 
remain  a  day  longer  than  was  necessary  under  German  rule. 

The  only  daughter  of  a  rich  and  indulgent  widow,  until 
the  fatal  summer  of  1914,  she  had  lived  a  luxurious  idle 
life;  petted  by  society  in  Belgium  for  her  charm  and  her 
beauty;  welcomed  at  house  parties  and  balls;  sought  for 
cotillions,  dinners,  race-meetings;  with  all  that  wealth 
and  rank  in  the  old  nobility  could  offer  to  a  girl  of  her 
position,  the  sudden  transition  to  the  horrors  of  German 
invasion  and  occupation  was  terrific. 

When  the  war  broke  out  in  1914,  her  mother  and  she 
were  entertaining  a  large  house-party  of  fashionable 
young  people  in  their  chateau,  some  miles  out  from  Namur. 
The  sudden  crashing  of  guns  broke  in  upon  their  country 
pleasures,  their  guests  fled,  the  shells  boomed  over  the 
park  and  buildings,  old  friends  advised  them,  two  defense- 
less women,  to  abandon  the  chateau  and  take  refuge  in 
their  large  town  house  at  Namur. 

Their  hearts  were  heavy  with  grief  and  foreboding,  that 
August  morning,  when  they  looked  their  last  on  their 
ancestral  home ;  its  huge  towers  and  wide  terraces  framed 
in  great  oaks  and  chestnuts,  sleeping  tranquilly  beneath  a 
radiant  blue  sky.  Ten  days  later  their  home  had  been 
gutted  from  tower  to  basement,  flames  had  destroyed 
their  furniture,  pictures,  family  heirlooms,  household 
treasures — all  scattered,  burnt  or  carried  off  by  the 
Huns — and,  crowning  insult,  German  dead  buried  in 
the  rose-gardens  beneath  the  marble  terrace.* 

*NoTB.     She  seemed  to  feel  this  more  bitterly  than  anything  else. 


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A  Belgian  Romance  85 

None  of  us  in  America  have  had  our  homes  pillaged 
or  destroyed,  so  it  is  hard  to  realize  the  heart-anguish  of 
looking  on,  helpless,  while  the  destruction  of  all  one  holds 
sacred  is  consummated;  so  these  two  lonely  women 
passed  many  gloomy  hours  in  the  town  house  at 
Namur  where  they  immediately  installed  a  Red  Cross 
hospital. 

The  shells  boomed  night  and  day  over  the  town;  every 
hour  my  young  friend  passed  through  the  whole  building, 
with  her  servants,  carrying  water,  wet  blankets  and  sticks 
to  beat  out  any  possible  fire;  six  or  seven  poor  families 
from  the  neighbors  had  taken  refuge  in  their  great  house, 
and  one  could  not  turn  them  away  to  face  the  fire  and 
bullets  in  the  streets,  so  they  camped  out  in  the  kitchen 
and  offices,  hall-ways  and  cellars.  The  Louis  XVI  ball- 
room, with  its  magnificent  frescoes  and  paneled  walls, 
was  turned  into  a  temporary  hospital,  my  young  friend 
in  charge. 

Fortunately,  before  the  war,  she  had,  like  many  women 
of  rank  in  Belgium,  taken  a  course  in  surgical  nursing, 
and,  having  passed  her  examination,  was  fully  qualified 
to  take  charge  of  the  hospital.  The  wounded  during  the 
siege  were  brought  in  from  the  streets,  their  blood  stain- 
ing the  marble  steps  of  the  grand  escalier,  and  lying  in 
pools  on  the  inlaid  floors  of  the  ball  room.  A  ghastly 
reminder  for  all  time  of  that  August,  1914!  For  four 
months  they  fed,  sheltered  and  protected  36  people,  not 
counting  the  wounded.  The  Red  Cross  flag  over  the 
great  portes-cocheres  did  not  prevent  the  German  soldiers 


86  War  Days  in  Brittany 

from  firing  at  any  imprudent  person  who  might  show 
themselves  at  the  windows  after  dark. 

The  health  of  the  widow,  never  robust,  gave  away 
under  these  misfortunes,  and  early  in  December,  1914, 
the  poor  girl  was  left  alone  to  face  her  difficulties.  Her 
country  destroyed,  her  mother  dead,  the  town  house  a 
hospital,  and  German  officers  quartered  in  the  two  wings 
looking  on  the  court.  Not  a  safe  or  pleasant  home  for  a 
defenseless  girl.  Friends  of  her  parents  advised  her  leav- 
ing for  France,  but  still  she  hesitated  to  leave  what  little 
remained  of  her  previous  happiness  to  seek  an  unknown 
future  in  a  strange  land,  and  only  a  dangerous  and  un- 
pleasant incident  finally  decided  her  to  take  this  hazard- 
ous step. 

In  December,  curious  to  see  the  damage  done  by  the 
Huns,  she  went  with  a  girl  friend  to  visit  the  town  of 
Dinant,  that  spot  of  infamous  memory,  where  the  boches 
shot  down  civilians — men,  women  and  children — like 
dogs,  and  dragged  their  families  out  to  see  their  execution. 
On  the  traki,  the  girls  fell  into  conversation  with  a  man 
who,  a  native  of  Dinant,  had  nearly  been  massacred  on 
that  fearful  day  in  August.  He  said  he  had  been  lined 
up  with  the  other  victims  and  the  order  given.  Shots 
were  poured  into  the  helpless  crowd.  He  owed  his  escape 
to  the  fact  that  he  was  in  the  second  line  and  was  short, 
the  man  in  front  being  a  tall  noble,  who  turned  out  to 
be  a  cousin  of  my  Yolande.  He  showed  the  girls  a 
sharp,  white  line  along  the  top  of  his  head,  where  the 
bullet  had  passed.  He  fell  beneath  the  cousin  of  my  friend, 


A  Belgian  Romance  87 

who,  being  a  large,  heavy  man,  completely  covered  him. 
During  the  night  the  boches  came  back  often  and  fired 
into  the  dark  mass,  did  they  see  the  slightest  movement. 
All  during  the  night  the  man  talked  in  undertones  to  the 
wounded  noble,  who  told  him  to  be  still  until  dawn,  when 
they  might  hope  to  escape  in  the  morning  mists  by  swim- 
ming the  Meuse. 

About  3:30  a.  m.,  the  traveler  spoke  to  the  noble,  and, 
getting  no  reply,  very  slowly  and  carefully  moved  his 
hand  up  to  where  he  thought  the  head  was.  The  body 
had  been  growing  heavier  and  heavier  and  he  had  been 
saturated  with  a  wet  substance.  What  was  his  horror  to 
find  the  head  had  been  shot  away  in  the  last  volley!  He 
waited,  silent  as  the  dead  about  him,  until  the  morning 
mists  crept  up  from  the  river,  then  wriggled  out  from  the 
mass  of  dead,  and  effected  his  escape  by  creeping  down 
the  bank  and  swimming  the  Meuse  in  the  early  dawn 
before  the  sun  rose.  My  poor  Yolande  was  deeply  affected 
by  this  recital.  She  had  known  of  the  murder  of  her 
relative,  but  none  of  the  details.  On  reaching  Dinant, 
she  visited  the  devastated  part  of  the  town,  where  some 
poor  wretched  women  sought  shelter  under  their  broken 
roofs,  having  lost  everything,  and  not  knowing  where 
their  families  were  scattered,  having  nowhere  else  to  go, 
they  came  back  like  homeless  cats,  nothing  but  broken 
walls,  shattered  roofs  and  piles  of  plaster,  bricks,  charred 
wood,  and  perhaps  a  chimney  to  show  what  had  once 
been  their  homes;  but  they  came  back  and  poked  among 
the  rubbish  with  sticks,  hoping  to  find  a  spoon  or  cooking 


88  War  Days  in  Brittany 

utensil ;  many  holding  monkey-like  babies  to  their  starved 
breasts,  all  that  remained  to  them  of  their  previous 
families. 

Sitting  thus,  holding  their  starving  children  to  their 
bosoms,  their  vacant  faces  and  shrivelled  forms  outlined 
under  the  roofless  doorways;  staring  at  space,  they 
presented  a  truly  desolate  picture.  My  friend  spoke  to 
them  and  tried  to  awaken  and  cheer  them,  but  it  was 
useless,  they  were  too  far  gone  in  misery  to  even  under- 
stand. 

This  horrible  spectacle  of  misery,  combined  with  the 
story  of  her  relative's  death,  raised  such  hatred  in  her 
heart  that,  as  she  said,  she  must  have  shown  too  plainly 
what  she  felt,  for,  while  passing  in  front  of  a  cafe  where 
some  German  ofl&cers  were  singing  and  feasting,  she  sud- 
denly felt  a  hand  on  her  shoulder  and  she  and  her  friend 
were  arrested  and  taken  to  the  guardhouse.  When  she 
demanded  why  they  had  been  arrested  the  sergeant  said: 
"because  she  had  cast  such  a  look  of  hatred  at  the  officers 
in  the  cafe!"     ("Un  regard  de  hain.") 

For  five  hours  they  were  left  sitting  in  the  guard-room, 
while  soldiers  came  in  and  tried  to  laugh  and  talk  to  them. 
Finally  the  officer  who  had  them  arrested  came  in  and 
tried  to  "jolly"  them.  When  all  his  efforts  were  met  with 
a  frigid  silence,  he  went  to  the  phone.  Fortunately  for 
Yolande,  as  she  understood  his  German  orders,  she 
immediately  claimed  her  release  as  a  Red  Cross  nurse. 
He  would  not  listen  at  first,  but  an  insistant  appeal  to  the 
Military  Governor  on  her  part  secured  their  freedom,  and 


A  Belgian  Romance  89 

the  two  girls  were  turned  out  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing in  the  soldier-infested  streets  of  Dinant;  and,  remem- 
ber, this  was  at  the  height  of  the  German  invasion  of 
Belgium,  when  the  whole  country  lay  at  their  mercy. 
Had  she  not  understood  German,  it  is  doubtful  if  the  girls 
would  ever  have  been  seen  again! 

How  she  ever  got  back  to  Namur  she  never  quite 
remembered,  but  this  experience  determined  her  to  leave. 
After  much  wire-pulling  and  family  influence,  she  obtained 
her  passports,  and,  in  company  of  a  young  wife  and  three 
small  children,  they  made  their  way  across  Germany  to 
Switzerland.  Her  perfect  German  accent  and  blond 
appearance  helped  them  along,  but  when  at  last  they 
crossed  the  frontier  their  hearts  were  too  heavy  for  talk. 
They  were  safe,  but  at  what  a  sacrifice. 

Safely  arrived  in  Dinard,  she  immediately  signed  on 
"for  the  war,"  and  became  one  of  the  most  valuable  and 
beloved  nurses.  She  was  so  gentle  and  gracious,  but  still 
so  firm  and  competent,  she  soon  was  given  charge  of  a 
whole  floor  (65  men  of  all  kinds  and  descriptions).  I 
looked  at  her  often  in  amazement.  How  that  slender 
young  woman  could  make  those  rough  men  obey  her! 
She  never  raised  her  voice  or  lost  her  temper  in  all  the 
eighteen  months  she  was  in  Dinard.  I  never  saw  her 
peeved,  or  snappy,  or  cross. 

At  that  time  I  used  to  go  every  morning,  from  9  to  12, 
to  make  a  little  ''extra  food"  or  canteen  for  the  more 
dangerously  wounded,  I  had  invited  a  friend,  the  Mar- 
quise de  T (also  a  Belgian),  to  help  me.  We  had  a  little 


90  War  Days  in  Brittany 

rolling  table  piled  high  with  jam,  bread  and  butter, 
soup,  and  a  rum  punch  I  made  from  Mellin's  food,  milk 
and  eggs  and  rum,  which  we  took  to  the  different  wounded. 
The  men  were  very  fond  of  this  punch,  but  only  those  who 
were  "bed  cases"  could  have  it,  and  then  only  a  glass 
apiece. 

Amongst  others,  there  was  a  huge  Senegalais,  an  in- 
terne for  some  months,  who  had  had  a  number  of  small 
operations  and  who,  just  as  he  was  getting  better,  would 
always  go  out  and  get  drunk  and  then  was  laid  up  again, 
a  perpetual  blesse.  One  day,  apparently,  the  Marquise 
and  I  were  innocently  distributing  our  little  dejeuner, 
when  this  huge  creature  hobbled  up,  demanding  some 
'Tonche."  We  told  him  it  was  strictly  forbidden  that  day. 
He  gave  a  wild  bellow  and  rushed  at  us.  I  shall  never 
forget  that  great  animal,  his  face  as  black  as  ink,  with 
flashing,  angry  eyes,  his  great  red  mouth  open  and  yelling 
incomprehensible  gibberish  at  us,  flinging  himself  along 
on  crutches,  with  terrific  speed,  he  seemed  the  personifica- 
tion of  Darkest  Africa. 

We  fled  down  the  corridor  pursued  by  the  negro,  our 
little  table  rattling  along,  cups,  saucers  and  tartines 
bounding  out  as  we  ran,  the  precious  rum  punch  slopping 
over  at  every  step,  and  that  great  bellowing  Senegalais 
pounding  along  behind,  flinging  everything  that  came 
to  hand  at  us,  even  to  his  slippers,  which  he  finally 
whipped  off  as  he  saw  us  dash  around  the  corner.  Sud- 
denly a  door  opened  and  Yolande  appeared.  What  she 
said  to  the  monster  or  how  she  appeased  him  I  don't  know, 


A  Belgian  Romance  91 

but  after  a  while  he  went  grumbhng  and  growling  back 
to  his  room.  The  other  soldiers  said,  ^'VousVavezechappe 
belle  c^est  un  mauvais  caradere.'^  (You  got  off  easily, 
he  has  a  nasty  character.) 

For  over  two  years,  Yolande  staid  on,  reaping  golden 
opinions  on  all  sides;  her  constant  devotion  to  the  wounded 
all  day  and  many  nights,  easing  their  suffering,  comfort- 
ing, cheering,  even  in  the  last  sad  hours  staying  with 
them  through  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow,  and  going  to 
the  funeral  and  the  grave!  I  often  wondered  how  she 
stood  the  strain,  the  long  tedious  hours,  the  poor  food, 
the  cold  and  discomfort,  the  anxiety  of  the  operations, 
and  then,  added  to  all  these,  the  uncertainty  of  the 
future,  the  loneliness  of  exile,  and  the  then  black  outlook 
for  Belgium ! 

A  year  ago  happier  times  came  for  the  dear  girl.  For  a 
number  of  years  she  had  been  engaged  to  a  distinguished 
officer  in  the  Belgian  diplomatic  service,  and  last  Decem- 
ber he  was  able  to  obtain  leave  for  three  months,  and 
came  to  carry  his  bride  off  to  a  far-away,  sunny  country. 

I  like  to  think  of  her,  happily  married  to  the  man  she 
has  loved  so  long,  in  a  charming  house  of  her  own  amidst 
palms,  hibiscus  and  tropical  foliage,  far-away  from  all  the 
gloom  and  tragedy  of  her  war-stricken  country.  May 
all  happiness  and  wealth  and  peace  be  hers  in  this  new 
life!   She  deserves  them  all. 

December,  1917. 


THE  VOW 


(Copy) 

Ht  ionrnal 

Paris,  30  Mars,  1917. 
Madame  : 

J'ai  lu  et  hautement  appr^ci^  la  belle 
traduction  que  vous  avez  faite  de  mon 
po^me  et  je  vous  remercie  de  votre  pens^e 
de  la  faire  connaitre  dans  votre  pays. 

Autant  d'Am6ricains  fraternels  partagent 
notre  indignation  francaise  et  qui  s'unis  si 
Tenement  d  la  cause  de  la  justice  et  du 
droit. 

Daigniez  agr^er,  Madame,  avec  tous  mes 
remerciements,  mes  hommages  respectueux. 

Henri  de  Regnier. 


THE  VOW 
I 

I  swear  to  keep  forever  in  my  heart 

This  sacred  Hate,  until  the  final  heat. 
This  holy  venom  will  become  a  part 

Of  every  drop  which  forms  its  living  heat. 
Forever  graven  on  my  sombre  face 

A  tragic  furrow  on  my  mournful  brow. 
This  outrage  leaves  its  utmost  loathly  trace 

Upon  my  mind  and  soul.  Forever,  Now. 

II 

My  ruined  fields,  my  cities  sunk  in  flame. 

My  murdered  hostages,  my  fallen  sons. 
My  wounded  babes,  the  nameless  deeds  of  shame 

Upon  my  women,  helpless,  Jore  the  Huns, 
I  swear  I  shall  avenge!    My  justice  and  my  right 

Shall  conquer,  or  my  last  red  blood  I  shed. 
I,  France,  austere  and  blazing  in  my  might 

Shout  forth  this  message  to  my  valiant  dead. 

Ill 

This  Holy  vow  of  wrath,  this  oath  of  hate, 

Before  high  Heaven  solemnly  I  swear, 
Before  the  waters  of  the  Marne  and  Aisne, 

Still  crimson  with  French  blood,  I  consecrate 
Myself.  Oh,  Rheims  sublime!  Thou  torch  whose  glare, 

Still  shows  the  sacred  ruins  of  thy  fane. 
Burning  and  crumbling  on  the  horizon. 

Hear,  thou,  my  vow  of  vengeance  on  the  Hun! 

Henri  de  Regnier. 

1917,  Translated  by  Elsie  Deming  Jarves. 

195] 


WHAT  FRENCHWOMEN  ARE  DOING 

IN  WAR  TIME 


EM  PRU  NT  ^I  DEFENSE  NATIONALE 


PUBUE  sous   LES    AUSPICES    DE  LA    FEDERATION  NATIONALE   DE  LA  MUTUALITE  FRANCAISE 
QUI  FAIT  APPEL  A  TOUS   LES  TRAVAI  LLEURS.  AT0U5  LES  PREV0YANT5  A  T0U5  LES  PATRIOTES 
POUR   LA  LIBERATION  DUTERRITOIRE  ET    LA  VICTOIRE  FINALE. 


WHAT  FRENCHWOMEN  ARE  DOING 

IN  WAR  TIME 

With  the  full  blast  of  war  sweeping  over  this  old  Conti- 
nent, with  the  young  manhood  of  France  forming  a  wall 
of  steel  between  us  and  the  enemy  who  would  annihilate, 
with  the  prospect  of  this  tragedy  continuing  for  an  in- 
definite period,  each  Frenchwoman,  safe  behind  the  liv- 
ing barrier,  asks  herself  what  she  can  do  to  help.  How 
to  use  her  individual  capacities  to  the  best  advantage  for 
the  sustenance  and  comfort  of  those  dear  ones — the  son 
or  grandson  in  the  trenches,  the  husband  or  brother  at 
the  front,  the  children  and  the  old  folk  left  behind  in 
her  care. 

As  one  looks  abroad  over  this  beautiful  country,  seeing 
what  she  is  accomplishing,  one  is  inspired  with  a  sincere 
and  fervent  admiration  for  her  devotion,  self-sacrifice 
and  patriotism. 

These  noble  qualities  are  not  restricted  to  one  class, 
but  are  universal  in  all  ranks;  from  the  peasant  to  the 
comtesse,  from  the  little  working  girl  to  banker's  wife; 
dressmakers,  actresses,  school-teachers,  shopkeepers, 
nuns,  the  erstwhile  rich  and  idle,  as  well  as  the  wage- 
gainer,  all  feel  the -same  enthusiasm;  the  same  spirit  of 
courage  and  endurance  fills  their  souls;  the  pressing  desire 
to  ^'soul-ager"  (help)  the  sorrow  and  privation  brought 
on  by  this  war  of  wars. 

All  through  the  summer  and  autumn  the  women  have 
worked  manfully  in  the  fields.   I  use  this  word  advisedly. 

199] 


100  War  Days  in  Brittany 

The  physical  strength  to  gather  the  wheat,  cut  the  hay, 
garner  the  fruit  and  vegetables,  care  for  the  cattle,  toiling 
every  day  and  all  day  to  replace  the  men  at  the  front, 
shows  what  healthy  living  for  generations  will  do. 

I  have  seen  them  down  on  the  beach  raking  up  the 
heavy  piles  of  sea-weed,  pitching  it  on  the  high  carts 
and  hauling  it  back  to  their  farms,  sometimes  miles  away, 
as  fertilizer  for  the  soil. 

Strong,  broad  women  these,  woolen  skirts  tucked  up 
high  above  their  thick  ankles,  muslin  coiffes  flapping  in 
the  stinging  wind  blowing  in  from  the  channel,  broad 
faces  and  muscular  arms,  red  from  exertion;  very  often 
even,  the  Grandma  tosses  a  load  of  sea-weed  on  her  pitch- 
fork to  the  granddaughter,  standing  high  upon  the  soggy 
mass  in  the  two-wheeled  cart.  I  have  seen  them  working 
at  the  cider  mill  in  the  farmyard;  ploughing  the  fields  for 
the  winter  wheat;  driving  carts  piled  with  farm  products 
to  the  markets.  A  woman  and  a  tiny  donkey  being  about 
the  only  means  of  transport  left  now,  since  the  horses  and 
men  have  gone  to  the  war. 

The  old  men  and  women,  who  might  confidently  look 
forward  to  a  comfortable  seat  by  the  open  hearth,  are  out 
in  the  fields  in  all  weathers,  forgotten,  the  rheumatic 
joints,  the  bronchitis  and  the  colds;  the  wind  is  piercing, 
rain  falls  almost  every  day  in  Brittany,  but  warm  gar- 
ments, and  boots  lined  with  straw  keep  out  the  cold,  and 
the  cattle  must  be  herded;  someone  must  cut  and  trim 
the  hedges  and  trees;  collect  the  apples  and  cabbages; 
potatoes  and  turnips  must  be  dug     Many  are  the  little 


Frenchwomen  in  War  Time  101 

gifts  of  knitted  socks  and  jerseys,  of  passemontagnes 
(hoods)  sent  to  the  'Toilu"  at  the  front,  for  these  women 
are  never  idle.  In  the  long,  dark  evenings  by  the  open 
fire,  with  only  its  light  and  a  candle  to  brighten  the  dark 
interior,  knitting  needles  glisten  and  click,  and  thoughts 
roam  afar  to  the  trenches,  where,  behind  the  barbed-wire 
and  fortifications,  ^Hhe  man^'  is  watching  each  day. 

Railroad  canteens  are  another  war  work  for  the  soldiers 
going  to,  and  coming  back  from  the  front.  Here  they  can 
get  a  warm  drink  and  food — tea,  coffee,  milk,  cocoa,  good 
bread  and  meat,  etc. — served  by  the  ladies  of  the  French 
Red  Cross,  who  also  climb  into  the  trains,  passing  from 
carriage  to  carriage,  shaking  their  little  tin  boxes  for  sous 
or  francs;  the  stations  have,  as  well,  a  Red  Cross  dressing 
station,  where  wounds  are  washed  and  rebandaged,  a 
bed  for  a  weary  body,  and  a  quiet  hour  are  provided  free 
of  all  charge.     They  are  constantly  used,  I  can  tell  you. 

In  thousands  of  hospitals  all  over  France,  the  Red 
Cross  nurses  are  working  with  unexampled  devotion.  No 
task  is  too  menial  for  them,  no  work  too  repulsive;  their 
only  thought  is  to  relieve  the  suffering  of  the  poor  crea- 
tures brought  to  them.  The  men  repay  them  well  by  quick 
obedience,  and  openly-expressed  gratitude.  It  is  a  touch- 
ing sight  to  go  down  a  hospital  ward  lined  with  beds,  and 
see  these  chaps  follow  gratefully  with  boyish  eyes,  the 
little  white-robed  figure,  which  represents  so  much  to 
them  of  well-being  and  gentle  care.  If  one  stops  to  inquire 
about  their  health,  always  a  cheery  answer,  "Ca  va  bien 
aujour  d'hui,  Madame  (It  goes  well  today,  Madame);" 


102  War  Days  in  Brittany 

no  matter  how  much  they  suffer,  or  what  acute  agony 
they  may  be  undergoing,  they  will  not  admit  it. 

I  know  one  boy  of  nineteen,  a  volunteer,  twice  wounded, 
who  was  told  by  the  doctor,  while  dressing  his  wound  for 
the  first  time  after  his  third  operation,  "Scream,  my  boy, 
scream,  if  it  does  you  good,  it  will  help."  *'No,  doctor," 
he  replied,  **I  prefer  to  whistle."  So  while  the  doctor 
opened  the  wound  and  cleaned  the  bone,  he  whistled 
"Nous  les  aurons  (We'll  get  'em)" — the  latest  song  from 
the  trenches. 

Many  women  who  would  gladly  work  in  the  hospitals 
are  prevented  by  other  duties.  They  have  their  homes  and 
children  to  look  after,  or  old  people  or  invalids  dependent 
on  them,  or  also  they  must  tend  the  shops  in  their  hus- 
bands' absence,  or  run  the  auberge  or  hotel,  or  work  in 
the  factories,  but  each  one  does  something  on  the  side 
for  the  "Union  sacree."  It  may  not  be  more  than  a  pair 
of  knitted  socks  sent  weekly  to  the  trenches,  or  a  cushion 
made  of  snipped-up  cotton  rags,  cut  fine  and  close,  or  a 
package  of  tobacco  bought  by  carefully  saved  sous.  From 
this  universal  wish  have  been  created  many  good  and 
useful  works.  During  a  recent  visit  to  Paris  I  was  im- 
pressed by  the  number  of  charities  Frenchwomen 
have  established  and  keep  in  fine  running  order.  Let  me 
mention  a  few : 

1.  Oeuvre  des  Blesses  au  Travail  (work  of  wounded 
soldiers) . 

2.  Oeuvre  du  Soldat  dans  la  Tranchee  (fund  for  the 
soldier  in  the  trenches — send  warm  clothing). 


^^  C^iT^.  A4W5    trvtdfSiuM:i. 


Serffo/lf  V^f 


Frenchwomen  in  War  Time  103 

3.  For  sending  food  and  clothing  to  the  French 
Prisoners  in  Germany. 

4.  The  '*Quinze  Vingt/*  the  government  establish- 
ment for  teaching  the  permanently  blind  a  trade. 

5.  The  Duchesse  d'Uzes'  organization  for  sending 
clothing  and  money  to  the  soldiers  from  the  invaded  dis- 
tricts; men  who  have  no  news  from  their  families  or  rela- 
tions since  the  German  invasion. 

6.  Soup  kitchens — good,  wholesome  meals  provided 
for  ten  cents.  There  are  a  number  scattered  over  Paris, 
frequented  by  men  and  women  of  good  positions  before 
the  war.  Old  artists  and  musicians  out  of  work,  profes- 
sors who  have  lost  their  jobs,  refugees  from  Lille,  Courtrai 
and  the  invaded  provinces,  widows  and  girls  with  no 
means,  little  dressmakers  and  milliners  without  custom 
— a  sad  patient  crowd  who  come  silently  and  humbly  to 
eat  the  bitter  bread  of  charity.  One  group  of  ladies  at 
the  Hotel  Mercedes  (placed  at  their  disposal)  provides 
four  hundred  meals  daily. 

VOeuvre  du  Blesse  au  Travail  (objects  made  by  wounded 
soldiers)  are  showing  in  handsomely  arranged  shops, 
articles  made  by  the  men  as  they  lie  wounded  in  their 
beds.  These  articles  consist  chiefly  of  baskets  of  finely 
plaited  straw,  some  artistically  colored  and  of  charming 
designs;  others  made  by  clumsier  hands,  crude  but 
interesting — lace  mats  of  plaited  ribbon;  string  bags  of 
macrame  work;  penholders  and  pencils,  fashioned  from 
spent  cartridges.  Rings  made  from  the  aluminum  tips  of 
exploded  German  shells  picked  up  in  the  French  trenches 


104  War  Days  in  Brittany 

— these  are  very  cunningly  made  and  are  often  very  hand- 
some in  design  and  execution.  Every  man,  woman  and 
child  wants  one  of  these  rings,  but  as  their  only  value  is 
being  "genuine,"  i.  e.,  made  in  the  trenches  by  a  soldier,  from 
the  real  shell  tip,  there  are  naturally  not  enough  to  go 
'round. 

Flowers  made  out  of  bread,  tinted  and  modeled  to  an 
exact  imitation  of  Dresden  flowers,  stand  in  little  gilt 
baskets,  also  made  by  the  soldier.  Dolls  as  Red  Cross 
nurses,  soldiers,  doll  furniture  and  houses,  boxes,  baskets, 
no  end  of  tempting  little  things  are  displayed  and  sold 
by  the  ladies  of  the  committee,  who  guarantee  the  genuine- 
ness of  each  object. 

Then  there  is  the  "Journee,"  or  a  day  is  chosen  with 
the  approval  of  the  government,  committees  are  formed 
in  all  the  cities,  towns,  and  villages  of  France.  Bands  of 
young  girls  and  children  start  out  early  to  sell  flags  or 
boutonnier^s  or  rosettes,  on  the  steps  of  the  churches, 
at  the  railroad  station,  in  the  public  squares  and  streets, 
holding  their  little  pincushions  stuck  with  flags,  or  scraps 
of  ribbon,  with  a  sealed  tin  box  for  coins.  Thus,  enormous 
sums  are  collected  for  the  various  war  works,  and  every 
one,  no  matter  how  poor  or  humble,  can  give  his  offering. 

Besides  these  charities,  innumerable  ''Ouvroirs"  exist 
in  every  city.  Sewing-rooms,  where  poor  women  are  paid 
(and  fed)  to  make  shirts,  chemises,  belly-bands,  socks, 
pyjamas,  etc.,  and  everyone  is  thus  helped  through  the 
long,  hard  winter. 

Women  are  taking  men's  places  all  over  France.  Women 


Frenchwomen  in  War  Time  105 

are  in  the  munition  factories,  in  the  government  post- 
office  and  telegraph  service,  as  tramway  conductors,  as 
metro  ticket  collectors — places  they  never  dreamed  of 
filling  before  the  war,  for  the  Frenchwoman  is  essentially 
a  home-body,  her  ''interieur"  (home)  being  dearer  to  her 
than  all  else;  to  take  these  masculine  occupations  is 
especially  hard. 

The  great  dressmakers  of  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  the  Rue 
de  Rivoli,  and  the  Place  Vendome  are  doing  their  share, 
too.  One  floor  is  usually  devoted  to  some  charitable  pur- 
pose, either  an  "Ouvroir,"  or  a  convalescent  home,  etc.; 
and  that  the  little  ''midinette"  (apprentice)  may  feel 
that  she,  too,  is  working  for  France,  a  work  has  been 
started  called  ''la  marraine"  (the  godmother).  Through 
proper  channels,  any  woman  or  girl  can  be  put  in  com- 
munication with  some  lonely  soldier  in  the  trenches.  She 
writes  him  long,  encouraging  letters.  She  keeps  up  his 
spirits  by  letting  him  know  someone  is  thinking  of  him. 
When,  by  strictest  economy,  she  can  scrape  a  few  sous 
together,  she  buys  him  a  ten-cent  packet  of  tobacco,  or  a 
few  postal  cards,  or  a  pencil,  and  back  in  due  time  comes 
a  soiled  card,  written  in  pencil,  telling  her  the  news  of  the 
trenches,  how  they  will  soon  throw  the  "sales  boches" 
out  of  France,  and  promising  to  spend  many  a  happy  hour 
with  his  "marraine"  if  he  is  lucky  enough  to  escape  the 
German  bullets. 


PRISONERS  AND  AMBULANCES 


PRISONERS  AND  AMBULANCES 


So  MANY  friends  have  asked  me  to  tell  them  about  our 
life  here  in  Brittany,  that  I  have  selected  a  few  facts,  hoping 
that  these  little  wavelets,  on  the  ocean  of  war-literature 
at  present  inundating  the  country,  may  prove  of  interest. 

Let  me  first  tell  the  story  of  an  American  girl  of  whom 
we  are  all  very  proud — a  girl  whose  courage  and  devo- 
tion has  won  her  the  Croix  de  Guerre  and  the  Medaille 
d'or  des  Epidemes. 

The  Vicontesse  de  la  Mettrie,  daughter  of  the  late 
Comte  Amedee  de  Gasquet — James  of  New  Orleans  and 
Dinard — and  grand-daughter  of  the  late  Colonel  George 
Watson  Pratt,  of  Albany,  has  lived  in  Dinard  all  her 
life.  On  the  18th  of  August,  1914,  she  offered  her  services 
as  a  nurse,  and  since  that  date  has  been  constantly  on 
duty,  never  sparing  herself  in  her  devotion  to  her  wounded. 

I  cannot  do  better  than  translate  from  the  order  of 
the  day,  read  at  the  army  headquarters,  the  following 
citation : 

''The  Vicontesse  Henri  de  la  Mettrie,  whose  husband 
went  to  the  front  early  in  August,  1914,  became  hospital- 
nurse  in  the  military  hospitals,  first  at  Rennes,  and  after- 
wards at  the  front  on  the  Somme,  and  on  the  Aisne,  these 
last  places  since  1916.  She  has  just  become  the  object 
of  highly  laudatory  'citation'  in  general  orders  of  the 
army  for  the  18th  of  February,  1918,  in  the  following 
terms:     'Has  shown,  during  the  bombardment   of  the 

[109] 


110  JVar  Days  in  Brittany 

ambulance  of ,  the  utmost  courage,  devotion  and 

sang  froid.  On  the  30th  of  November,  1917,  her  ambulance 
was  subjected  to  a  prolonged  bombardment  and,  although 
slightly  wounded  herself  from  bursting  shell,  she  imme- 
diately rescued  two  dangerously  injured  stretcher  bearers, 
who  fell  at  her  side.  She  refused  to  seek  shelter  and  showed 
the  greatest  courage  throughout  all  danger.' 

''The  Croix  de  Guerre  is  accorded  with  this  citation. 
Madame  de  la  Mettrie  has  further  earned  the  gratitude 
of  her  compatriots  by  giving  her  blood,  by  infusion,  to 
save  the  life  of  one  of  her  wounded  men  (dying  in  her 
hospital  at  the  front)  and  she  had  the  joy  of  knowing  she 
had  saved  his  life."  Let  me  add  in  passing,  that, before  the 
war,  the  Vicontesse  de  la  Mettrie  was  a  lively,  gay  young 
woman  of  fashion,  fond  of  automobiling,  hunting,  travel- 
ing and  dancing.  The  contrast  of  these  carefree  days  be- 
fore the  war  when  young,  rich  and  lovely,  with  a  devoted 
husband  and  a  loving  family  about  her,  she  could  rea- 
sonably look  forward  to  every  happiness — and  the  present 
tragic  months  under  the  German  guns  must  be  at  times 
overwhelming. 

Her  last  posts  have  been  in  such  dangerous  zones,  often 
under  bombardment  night  and  day,  that,  before  the  war- 
office  allowed  her  to  go,  she  was  obliged  to  sign  three 
papers,  stating,  respectively:  First — that  she  had  no 
children  or  parents  dependent  on  her;  second — that  she 
fuUy  realized  the  danger,  and  went  at  her  own  risk  and 
peril;  third — that  her  husband  knew  when  and  where  she 
was  going,  and  fully  gave  his  consent. 


Prisoners  and  Ambulances  111 

Those  people  in  America  who  think  war-nursing  con- 
sists of  attending  to  nice,  clean,  interesting  young  men  in 
big,  airy,  spotless  wards,  with  sunshine  pouring  in  at  the 
open  windows,  flowers  on  a  table  near  the  bed,  and  pretty 
Red  Cross  nurses  serving  wine,  jellies  and  afternoon  tea, 
would  be  rather  surprised  to  look  in  upon  these  ambulance- 
stations  at  the  front,  behind  the  first  dressing  stations. 

Imagine  a  shelltorn,  guns  wept  desert;  low,  wooden  en- 
campments partitioned  off  into  long  rooms,  full  to  over- 
flowing with  wounded;  ankle-deep  mud  separating  the  dif- 
ferent sheds;  appalling  food ;  no  possibility  of  baths  or  even 
elementary  cleanliness;  no  comfort  of  any  kind.  For 
sleeping  quarters  each  nurse  has  a  cubicle  5  feet  by  9  feet, 
a  cot,  a  chair,  a  washbasin  on  a  box,  and  a  small  trunk  for 
her  clothes.  Under  the  cot  is  a  hole,  long  and  large  and 
deep  enough  for  a  person  to  lie  in,  into  which  they  pop 
when  the  bombardment  alarm  is  given.  The  damp  cold 
is  intense  in  these  desolated  regions,  the  work  equally  so. 
Always  on  the  alert  for  gas  attacks  or  shells,  always  ready, 
night  and  day,  for  the  arrival  of  freshly  wounded  from  the 
trenches,  only  a  few  yards  away,  operations  often,  deaths 
often,  fatigue  always,  dirt,  stenches,  vermin,  the  sacrifice 
of  youth,  good  looks  and  ease — these  are  some  of  the 
demands  that  a  military  nurse  under  army  orders  must 
consider  all  in  a  day's  work. 

The  Croix  de  Guerre  is  the  highest  decoration  given  by 
the  French  Government  for  deeds  of  valor  or  endurance 
under  fire,  and  many  are  the  sons  of  France  who  wear  it 
on  their  blue  tunics.    That  it  also  gleams  on  the  uniforms 


112  War  Days  in  Brittany 

of  some  of  her  daughters,  shows  how  unfailing  is  the  hero- 
ism and  patriotism  inspiring  alike  the  men  and  women  of 
France. 

All  these  four  long,  weary  years  this  has  been  the  lot  of 
the  French. 

Behind  the  lines  reigns  a  constant  anxiety.  In  the 
cities,  in  the  villages,  in  the  lonely  farms,  everywhere,  the 
homes  are  empty  of  their  men-folk.  Millions  of  families 
living  in  fear  of  what  crushing  news  the  next  hours  may 
bring.  Lucky  those  households  whose  men  are  still  in 
the  fighting  line. 

A  slight  idea  of  the  degradation  and  misery  endured  in 
the  German  prison  camps  may  be  gathered  from  a  letter 
received  from  the  brother  of  one  of  my  maids.  He  is  now 
at  Leysin,  in  Switzerland,  trying  to  regain  his  health  and 
recover  his  eyesight.  At  times  he  is  almost  blind,  the 
result  of  the  typhus.  If  he  loses  it  completely,  he  will  in- 
deed be  a  helpless  burden  to  his  family,  as  he  is  a  cabinet- 
maker by  trade.  His  father  and  mother  are  humble  folk 
who  have  brought  up  their  nine  children  honestly  and 
well,  educating  them,  giving  each  a  good  trade,  and,  before 
the  war,  looking  forward  themselves  to  a  well-earned  rest 
in  their  old  age.  Now  this  large  family  is  completely 
ruined  and  broken  up.  This  eldest  son  almost  blind,  the 
second  son  disappeared  since  1914  in  the  holacust  of  the 
war,  the  third  son  fighting  in  Italy.  Next  month  the 
fourth  boy,  barely  eighteen,  joins  the  colors. 

The  poor  old  father,  struck  down  by  paralysis,  has  been 
slowly  dying  for  months.    The  rest  of  the  family,  the  old 


Prisoners  and  Ambulances  113 

mother,  four  small  children  and  a  young  girl,  are  entirely 
dependent  on  the  wages  of  my  maid,  except  for  110  francs 
($23)  a  month,  given  as  allowance  by  the  French  Govern- 
ment to  those  whose  men  are  fighting.  The  old  mother 
has  a  patch  of  ground  where  she  grows  a  few  vegetables. 
One  boy  of  fourteen  receives  a  few  francs  as  electrician 
(the  only  wage  earner  at  home).  Out  of  her  wages  of 
$20.60  a  month,  my  good  Marie  has  helped  her  family, 
bought  clothes  and  medicines  for  the  sick  father  and  the 
children,  and  managed  to  send  twice  a  month,  for  the  last 
three  and  one-half  years,  a  box  to  the  prisoner  brother. 
Naturally,  all  her  savings  are  gone.  This  is  typical  of 
thousands  of  families  all  over  France — it  is  not  a  hard-luck 
story. 

These  monthly  boxes  sent  to  the  prisoners  usually  con- 
tain a  half  pound  of  coffee,  costing  28  cents;  a  quarter 
pound  of  sugar,  costing  5  cents;  one-half  pound  of  choco- 
late, costing  25  cents;  one-half  pound  of  rice,  costing  18 
cents;  one-half  pound  of  butter,  costing  50  cents;  one-half 
pound  of  figs,  costing  14  cents;  one  box  of  sardines,  costing 
42  cents;  one  jar  of  jam,  costing  25  cents;  one  can  of  con- 
densed milk,  costing  55  cents;  one  box  of  dates,  costing  35 
cents;  one  piece  of  soap,  costing  20  cents;' two  packages  of 
cigarettes,  costing  25  cents;  one  pair  of  wool  socks;  one 
cotton  shirt;  packing,  costing  50  cents;  one  box  of  meat 
and  beans,  costing  39  cents. 

The  letter  of  Marie's  brother  is  as  follows: 
"Madame  permits  me  to  address  to  her  my  sincere 
thanks  for  the  money  which  allows  me  to  purchase  some 


114  War  Days  in  Brittany 

strengthening  food,  which  my  poor  state  of  health  so 
greatly  demands. 

''Since  my  arrival  in  Switzerland,  I  asked  no  further 
help  from  my  sister  nor  my  family,  who,  as  Madame 
knows,  have  struggled  against  such  great  difficulties,  due 
to  present  conditions.  How  much  they  have  voluntarily 
borne  during  my  stay  in  Germany,  when  it  was  so  urgent ! 
It  is  absolutely  certain  that  if  I  am  still  in  this  world  it  is 
to  thanks  of  the  solicitude  of  my  sister  and  of  my  family, 
who  deprived  themselves  daily  in  order  to  send  me  food. 

"Being  wounded  the  29th  of  August,  1914,  and  made 
prisoner,  I  dragged  about  the  hospital  for  five  and  one- 
half  months.  The  15th  of  February,  1915,  I  was  sent  to 
the  camp  at  Cassel  at  the  very  moment  of  the  outbreak 
of  typhus,  which  appeared  the  29th  of  February.  I  would 
not  know  how  to  describe  to  you,  Madame,  the  scenes  of 
horror  which  I  witnessed  at  that  time.  I  would  have  to 
write  a  book,  even  then  I  would  lack  words  to  give  you 
the  smallest  conception  of  all  the  great  misery  whose 
ghastly  impression  will  remain  forever  engraved  in  my  soul. 

"After  nursing  a  large  number  of  my  comrades,  at- 
tempting by  my  goodwill  to  make  up  for  my  inexperience, 
my  own  turn  came.  I  was  struck  low  by  this  appalling 
sickness  the  19th  of  April,  1915.  After  a  few  days  in  the 
hospital  I  conquered  this  awful  illness,  but  in  what  a  state. 
I  could  not  walk  but  with  the  aid  of  crutches.  I  was  a 
human  rag.  The  care  which  I  ought  to  have  had  was 
substituted  by  a  complete  neglect  on  the  part  of  the 
authorities,  even  the  most  ordinary  and  needful  precau- 
tions were  denied  me. 

"For  the  following  two  months  I  lay  on  the  floor,  only  a 
threadbare  blanket  for  covering.  It  is  useless,  Madame, 
to  recite  to  you  the  treatment  of  utmost  rigor  to  which  I 
was  subjected.  It  was  the  same  for  all  of  us.  Alas,  how 
many  unfortunates  have  died  of  it!    Two  thousand  five 


Prisoners  and  Ambulances  115 

hundred  are  the  official  figures  recognized  by  the  German 
authorities  in  our  hospital. 

"They  will  have  to  answer  before  the  tribunal  of  human- 
ity for  this  horror  added  to  so  many  others  of  which  they 
are  guilty.  They  are  entirely  responsible,  for  they  never 
made  the  slightest  effort  to  prevent  contagion,  or  to  atten- 
uate, in  any  way,  the  hideous  results.  Quite  the  contrary! 
They  remained  inert,  rejoicing  in  the  work  of  desolation 
passing  before  their  eyes.  Their  cynical  ferocity  per- 
mitted the  German  general  commanding  our  camp  to  ex- 
plain in  the  presence  of  these  dying  prisoners :  'I  make  war 
in  my  own  way.'  He  made  us  feel,  we  unfortunate  mori- 
bunds,  that  if  we  were  left  without  the  most  elementary 
care  of  nursing,  abandoned  in  a  most  tragic  state,  it  was 
entirely  due  to  him,  the  German  general  commanding. 

''After  a  long  time,  the  Red  Cross,  horrified  by  the 
ravages  caused  by  this  scourge,  and  by  the  indifference 
of  the  German  authorities,  obtained  after  great  difficulty, 
the  privilege  of  sending  some  French  doctors  to  our  camp 
at  Cassel.  These  devoted  men  did  their  whole  duty,  more 
than  their  duty,  no  matter  how  trying  and  disheartening. 
There,  where  the  deepest  despair  reigned,  their  arrival 
gave  us  a  gleam  of  hope.  By  their  sublime  abnegation 
and  absolute  devotion,  they  succeeded  in  stamping  out 
this  pest;  alas,  by  the  sacrifice  of  their  lives.  Two  of  our 
dear  doctors  thus  paid  the  debt,  but  to  those  who  saw  them 
at  their  work — courageous,  cheering,  consoling  their  poor 
comrades,  prey  to  this  vile  disease,  the  remem- 
brance of  them  will  remain  forever  vivid  and  holy — these 
two  heroes. 

"I  have  witnessed  the  most  horrible  misery,  but  I 
would  do  wrong  to  let  you  think  I  was  the  greatest  suf- 
ferer. Whoever  has  been  prisoner  in  Germany  has  seen 
the  same  spectacle,  the  acts  of  refined  cruelty  one  hoped 
had  disappeared  forever  from  the  world.    I  enclose  two 


116  War  Days  in  Brittany 

photos,  which  will  give  you  some  idea  of  the  actual  con- 
ditions endured  by  so  many  thousand  unfortunates  fallen 
into  German  hands.  One  shows  the  interior  of  a  shed 
where  the  prisoners  are  crowded,  a  bed  of  infection  for  all 
kinds  of  diseases.  The  other  shows  the  punishment 
meted  out  for  the  merest  peccadillo.  They  need  no 
comment. 

"I  cannot  close  this  recital  of  misery  without  a  word, 
which  I  judge  very  necessary,  about  this  unhappy  life, 
so  bravely  supported  by  so  many  thousands  of  unfor- 
tunates. What  would  have  become  of  us,  but  for  such 
kind  souls  as  you?  How  many  of  my  wretched  compan- 
ions have  only  been  sustained  morally  and  physically, 
through  these  days  of  trial,  by  the  regular  arrival  of 
parcels  sent  by  kind  unknown  friends! 

"If  these  charitable  people  could  hear  half  of  the  ex- 
pressions of  gratitude,  and  see  the  pleasure  caused  by 
these  shipments,  they  would  assuredly  feel  rewarded.  I 
want  you  to  know  this,  as  I  feel  it  will  especially  interest 
you.  Your  kindness  towards  me  proves  it.  Thanks  from 
me  and  thanks  from  them. 

''I  long  to  return  to  France.  I  await  with  impatience 
the  day  of  expatriation,  which  will  permit  me  to  see  again 
my  old  parents,  my  family,  and  to  embrace  once  more  my 
little  girls — poor  darlings,  deprived  so  early  of  my  affection 
and  care.  But  I  am  resigned  to  wait,  and  to  re-establish 
here  in  Switzerland  my  health,  so  necessary  after  this 
war.  I  know,  Madame,  you  have  given  things  to  my 
little  ones;  from  me  many  thanks. 

''Receive,  Madame,  my  sincerest  salutations  and  the 
assurance  of  my  profound  gratitude. 

''Your  devoted, 

"F.  F. 

"Interne  Francais. 
"Hotel  du  Chamessaire,  Leysin,  Suisse." 


French  \\'()unded  HuckUed  in  8hed  in  German  Prison 


Refined  Cruelty  as  Practiced  on  French  Officer  in  German  Prison 
for  Some  SHght  Infraction  of  Rules 


Priscmers  and  Ambulances  117 

With  this  authentic  picture  before  us,  shall  we  not  do 
well,  we  Americans,  to  realize  what  our  own  boys  will 
have  to  face,  should  they  fall  into  German  hands? 

Dinard  has  recently  been  obliged  to  open  her  doors  to 
one  thousand  homeless  children  from  Nancy.  That  his- 
torical and  beautiful  old  town  in  Lorraine  is  no  longer  a 
safe  place  for  kiddies.  Twelve  thousand  have  been  sent 
here  to  Brittany,  escorted  by  American  Red  Cross  doctors 
and  American  nurses,  and  their  school-masters  and  mis- 
tresses. Poor  little  mites,  they  look  white  and  frightened 
and  suppressed,  but  they  must  be  relieved  to  feel  they 
can  run  about  the  beach  without  the  fear  of  bombs — that 
terror,  night  and  day,  which  for  so  many  months  has 
haunted  them. 

Now  the  soft  lapping  of  the  waves  replaces  the  roar  of 
cannon;  the  green  fields  of  Brittany,  the  crumbling  build- 
ings of  their  old  home;  but  their  little  hearts  are  heavy, 
many  a  baby  is  crying  for  ''maman"  when  bed-time 
comes.  Their  wan  cheeks  are  growing  rosy  in  the 
breezes  from  the  Atlantic.  Good  butter,  milk,  eggs  and 
peaceful  sunny  days,  freedom  from  the  fear  of  bombard- 
ment, are  building  up  their  fragile  little  bodies,  and  the 
strained  look  is  leaving  their  eyes,  and  they  are  becoming 
normal  children  again. 

We  are  constantly  suffering  from  the  spy  fever.  Every 
once  in  a  while  it  breaks  out  in  a  virulent  form.  Every- 
one looks  askance  at  his  neighbor.  The  most  absurd 
rumors  circulate  through  the  whole  community,  and  the 
world  and  his  wife  are  in  a  feverish  state  of  exasperation, 


118  War  Days  in  Brittany 

each  one  offering  excellent  advice  as  to  the  suppression  of 
spies,  German  agents,  pro-boches,  etc.,  etc. 

Of  course,  there  is  some  foundation  for  their  fears.  If 
you  take  up  a  map  of  Brittany,  you  will  see  that  the  coast 
line  is  greatly  indented.  There  are  high,  rocky  cliffs  and 
innumerable  caves  which  might  easily  shelter  whole  car- 
goes of  enemy  supplies.  Remote  little  beaches  might 
serve  as  landing  places,  and  there  are  all  sorts  of  rumors 
about  tanks  of  gasoline,  barrels  of  butter,  piles  of  fresh 
vegetables  and  meat  being  hidden  in  these  natural  ware- 
houses, and  as  to  how  the  submarines  come  in,  signalled 
from  shore  by  their  spies,  telling  them  when  and  where 
to  land. 

Undoubtedly  there  are  bases  for  supplies  along  the 
coast.  It  is  wild  and  uninhabited  for  miles,  the  little 
fishing  villages,  sheltering  along  the  shore-line  in  rocky 
bays  and  inlets,  are  practically  denuded  of  able-bodied 
men;  only  women,  children  and  old  folk  living  in  these 
little  stone  cottages  facing  the  rough  Atlantic,  and  who 
are  they  to  dare  to  withstand  armed  Germans? 

All  the  waters  along  the  coast  are  infested  with  the 
German  U-boats.  Last  week  the  little  English  packet, 
running  between  Saint-Malo  and  Southampton,  was  tor- 
pedoed ten  miles  off  the  Isle  of  Wight.  Only  the  captain 
and  four  others,  who  happened  to  be  on  deck,  were  saved 
by  clinging  to  wreckage.  All  the  crew,  the  two  steward- 
esses, and  the  cabin  boys  were  drowned  before  they  could 
reach  the  deck.  We  knew  them  well,  these  courageous 
people  who  have  so  often  made  the  journey  since  the  war 


Prisoners  and  Ambulances  119 

began,  and  now  they  are  lying  under  these  green  waters, 
martyrs  to  their  duty. 

The  submarines  take  weekly  toll,  but  no  names  are 
mentioned  in  the  papers,  only  the  total  amount  of  tonnage 
lost  each  week.  So,  added  to  the  horror  of  the  war,  is 
the  horror  of  the  sea.  In  many  a  little  home  along  the 
coast,  the  wife  and  mother  waits  for  the  man  who  will 
never  return. 

At  Paimpel,  seventy-five  miles  away,  sixty-six  out  of 
the  seventy  anti-bellum  fishing  smacks  have  been  sunk. 
What  it  means  to  the  poor  fishing  folk  can  be  better 
imagined  than  described.  Four  or  five  famiUes  would 
often  put  the  savings  of  a  generation  into  a  fishing  boat, 
and  the  whole  population  of  many  villages  lived  entirely 
off  the  product  of  the  sea.  Naturally,  their  poverty  is 
great,  and  they  don't  know  where  to  look  for  help.  As 
one  sits  on  the  rocks,  looking  at  the  beautiful  turquoise 
ocean  with  the  great  space  of  radiant  blue  above,  and  the 
coast-line  stretching  away  for  miles  into  the  hazy  distance, 
it  is  hard  to  realize  that  beneath  these  sunny  waters,  per- 
haps a  mile  or  two  away,  lurks  that  hideous  instrument 
of  death,  the  German  submarine. 

One  cannot  deny  their  presence — they  make  themselves 
too  often  conspicuous.  Ten  days  ago,  a  British  transport 
was  torpedoed  and  went  down  off  Jersey,  about  fifty  miles 
from  here.  Every  once  in  a  while  a  French  destroyer 
comes  into  Saint-Malo  harbor,  or  a  military  balloon  mounts 
guard  in  the  translucent  air. 

A  story  was  told  recently  which  bears  out  these  facts. 


1 20  War  Days  in  Brittany 

but  I  don't  believe,  myself,  that  it  is  possible.  During  the 
high  spring  tides  we  had  this  month  of  March,  the  sea 
went  out  on  the  ebb  to  a  great  distance,  leaving  exposed 
many  rocky  islets  and  long  sandy  beaches.  One  small 
island  has  deep  water  on  one  side,  where  a  U-boat  could 
be  safely  hidden,  and  a  sandy  stretch  to  the  landward  side 
forms  an  ideal  harbor. 

The  story  runs  that  a  few  days  ago  two  well-dressed 
men  walked  into  a  little  country  inn,  in  a  small  village, 
ordered  a  lunch  of  young  vegetables,  chicken,  cigars  and 
liqueurs.  Smiling  pleasantly  over  their  meal,  before 
leaving,  they  called  for  paper  and  ink. 

They  paid  for  their  food  in  French  money,  and  left  a 
note  for  the  Sous-Prefet  of  Saint-Malo.  Imagine  that 
official's  chagrin,  on  opening  it,  to  find  the  following: 

"Monsieur  le  Sous-Prefet — We  had  an  excellent  lunch 
and  wish  to  state  that  we  perceive  you  still  eat  well  in 
France. 

"Captain  Fritz. 
"Lieut.  Johann. 
"U-boat  off  Brittany,  March,  1918." 


TO  A  POILU 


TO  A  POILU 


Hail  to  you,  Poilu!    Before  the  world  you  stand 

Clad  in  the  glory  of  your  deathless  fame; 
War  had  no  terrors  for  the  dauntless  band 

That  held  the  line  'gainst  bombs,  and  shells,  and  flame. 

Through  tragic  months  of  winter  cold  and  rain, 
When  snow  and  water  filled  the  narrow  trench. 

Steadfast  and  patient  you  did  bear  the  strain; 
Oh!  little  soldier  of  the  war-tried  French. 

From  peasant  hut,  from  wealthy,  well-stocked  farm, 
From  mountain  village,  or  town's  crowded  mart, 

When  first  the  Toscin  shrilled  its  fierce  alarm. 
Gladly  you  rushed  to  play  your  noble  part. 

Oh,  Sons  of  France!    How  quickly  you  forgot 

The  easy  comfort  of  your  tranquil  life; 
When  high  and  low  have  shared  a  common  lot 

There  is  no  room  for  friction  or  for  strife. 

Beneath  the  August  sun,  two  years  ago. 

Life  fiercely  throbbed  and  beat  in  your  young  frame; 
You  battled,  struggled,  panted  in  the  glow 

Of  love  for  France,  and  for  her  precious  fame. 

'Midst  rye  and  wheat  of  cultivated  fields, 

Where  now  the  harvest  waits  the  reapers'  glaive, 

Only  a  wooden  cross  and  rain-stained  kepi  shields 
You — unknown  hero  in  your  nameless  grave. 

[123] 


1 24  IVar  Days  in  Brittany 

Ajar,  perhaps,  some  woman  mourns  your  end. 
Wondering,  in  sorrow,  where  your  body  lies; 

She  cannot  come  vnth  loving  hands  to  tend 
Your  humble  tomb  beneath  the  Argonne  skies. 

No  flowers  shall  fade  upon  your  lowly  mound, 
So  soon  by  storm  and  time  effaced  to  be; 

But  where  you  died,  'tis  France's  holy  ground, 
An  altar  and  a  pledge  to  Victory. 

Hail  to  you,  Poilu!  In  all  the  years  to  come. 
You'll  represent  the  Fighting  Soul  of  France; 

Verdun,  the  Meuse,  the  Champagne  and  the  Somme, 
Are  clarion  notes  which  thrill,  inspire,  entrance. 

That  rolling  down  the  misty  vales  of  Time 
Proclaim  your  strength,  your  courage,  fine  and  true, 

Raising  you  to  the  ranks  of  men  sublime; 
The  World  salutes  you!    Hail  to  you,  Poilu! 

Dinard,  1918. 


OUR  WAR  WORK 


z    i 

C 


Since  the  following  article,  "Our  War  Work,"  was 
written,  Mr.  Deming  Jarves  has  been  decorated  by 
the  French  government  with  the  cross  of  the  Chev- 
alier de  la  L6gion  d'Honneur. 


The  Jarves  Family  were  represented  in  the  Great 
War  by  Mrs.  Jarves'  brother,  Capt.  John  P.  Jackson, 
U.  S.  N.,  commanding  American  transports  bringing 
soldiers  to  France,  and  the  following  great-nephews 
of  Mr.  Jarves: 

Captain  Francesco  Marigliano,  Duke  Delmonte  of 
the  Cavalliera  di  Udine,  Italian  Army,  received  two  of 
the  highest  awards  for  valor  in  the  Battle  of  the 
Piave. 

Count  Pio  Marigliano  (his  brother),  First  Lieuten- 
ant in  the  Italian  Navy,  killed  in  the  blowing  up  of 
the  battleship  Leonardo  di  Vinci. 

Captain  Howard  Kerr,  Uth  Hussars,  British 
Army,  served  through  the  War  on  the  British  Front 
in  France  and  Belgium. 

Captain  Graham  Lindley  of  the  U.  S.  Army. 

Erie  and  John  Higginson  (brothers),  petty  officers 
in  the  U.  S.  Navy,  served  on  destroyers  on  the  Irish 
Coast. 

Charles  Higginson  (youngest  brother  of  above), 
took  an  intensive  course  at  Annapolis,  and  then  re- 
ceived his  commission  from  the  U.  S.  Navy  as  an 
Ensign,  on  a  Cruiser  doing  convoy  work. 


Mr.  Jarves'  father  and  two  uncles  took  part  in  the 
War  of  1812,  and  his  grandfather  in  the  Revolutionary 
War. 


OUR  WAR  WORK 

(From  the  Paris  Edition  of  the  New  York  Herald 
of  May  12,  1917) 

When  the  wounded  from  the  Marne  began  pouring  into 
Brittany,  there  were  no  adequate  hospitals  to  receive  and 
care  for  the  thousands  of  gravely  injured  men.  Everyone 
was  called  upon  to  give  money,  supplies,  beds  and  bedding, 
lamps  and  heating  apparatus,  surgical  instruments,  ban- 
dages, dressings,  hospital  garments,  all  the  paraphernalia 
of  great  military  hospitals,  to  be  installed  immediately. 
The  confusion  was  great,  the  goodwill  endless,  but  the 
material  lacking. 

Upon  these  tragic  circumstances  everyone,  from  peasant 
to  American  pleasure-seeker,  gave  of  their  best. 

Twelve  large  hospitals  were  opened  in  Dinard  alone; 
in  the  two  large  casinos,  in  the  hotels,  and  in  private 
villas  in  the  neighborhood  of  Dinard. 

From  St.  Malo,  St.  Servan,  Parame,  St.  Briac,  St. 
Lunaire,  all  within  walking  distance  of  Dinard,  came 
urgent  calls  for  help. 

From  remoter  convents,  where  everything  had  to  be 
provided,  came  even  greater  demands. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Deming  Jarves,  seeing  the  necessity  for 
immediate  help,  gave  very  largely  personally,  and  wrote 
to  relatives  and  friends  in  America  for  assistance.  How 
generous  the  response  was,  is  indicated  in  the  following 
list  of  friends  who  responded  at  once : 

[1271 


1 28  JVar  Days  in  Brittany 

Cases  were  sent  by : 

The  Red  Cross  Society  of  Washington. 

Philadelphia  Emergency  Aid  Society. 

British  War  Relief  Association,  New  York. 

Vacation  War  Relief  Association,  New  York. 

Junior  War  Relief  Association,  New  York. 

Surgical  Dressing  Committee,  Philadelphia. 

Princeton  Chapter  of  the  American  Red  Cross. 

Detroit  Drug  Company. 

Princess  Louis  of  Battenberg. 

Mme.  Jusserand  (wife  of  the  French  Ambassador  in  Washington). 

Mme.  Ekengren  (wife  of  the  Swedish  Minister  in  Washington). 

Lady  Swettenham. 

Lady  Wolseley,  of  Wolseley. 

Miss  Martha  Codman,  Washington. 

Mrs.  Morehead,  Washington. 

Mrs.  McGowan,  Washington. 

Miss  May  Moulton,  New  York. 

Major  Louis  L.  Seaman  (President  British  War  Relief  Association 

New  York). 
Mrs.  C.  Wolcott  Henry,  Philadelphia. 
Mrs.  Freeman,  Wissaluckon  Heights. 
Mrs.  Norman,  Newport. 
Mrs.  Charles  Pike,  Chicago. 
Mr.  W.  M.  Kozmenski,  Chicago. 
Mrs.  G.  H.  Rowland,  New  York. 
Mrs.  Russell  A.  Alger,  Detroit. 

Money  was  sent  by : 

Mr.  George  A.  Russel,  Detroit,  President  People's  State  Bank, 

Michigan. 
Mr.  M.  F.  Barbour,  Detroit,  President  Michigan  Stove  Company. 

Mr.  J.  T.  McMillan,  Detroit,  President  Detroit  Steamship  Com- 
pany. 

Mr.  H.  H.  Campbell,  Detroit. 

Mr.  G.  E.  Lawson,  Detroit,  Vice-President  People's  State  Bank. 

Mr.  Angus  Smith,  Detroit. 

Mr.  J.  Dwyer,  Detroit,  President  Detroit  Stove  Co. 


Our  War  Work  129 

Mr.  H.  B.  Ledyard,  Detroit,  President  Michigan  Central  Railway. 

Mr.  H.  Russel,  Detroit,  Vice-President  Michigan  Central  Railway. 

Mr.  R.  A.  Alger,  Detroit,  Vice-President  Packard  Motor  Car  Co. 

Mr.  C.  H.  Freer,  Detroit. 

Mr.  J.  C.  Hutchings,  Detroit,  Detroit  United  Railway. 

Mr.  Howie  Muir,  Detroit. 

Mr.  F.  J,  Hecker,  Detroit. 

Mrs.  R,  S.  Mason,  Detroit. 

Mrs.  Butler,  Detroit. 

Mr.  Truman  H.  Newberry,  Detroit,  former  Secretary  of  the  United 

States  Navy. 

Mr.  J.  S.  Alexander,  New  York,  President  National  Bank  of  Com- 
merce. 

Mr.  Myron  T.  Herrick,  New  York,  former  Ambassador  to  France. 

Mrs.  Helen  A.  Noyes,  St.  Paul. 

Mrs.  Coudert,  Washington. 

Mrs.  Thompson,  Washington. 

Mrs.  Julien-James,  Washington. 

Mrs.  C.  Howe  Johnson,  Washington. 

Mrs.  Lorthorpe  Bradley,  Washington. 

Mr.  Gibson  Farnstock,  Washington. 

Mr.  Hudnut,  New  York. 

Mr.  John  Aspergren,  New  York. 

Mrs.  Sheffield  Phelps,  New  York. 

Mrs.  Moses  Taylor  Pyne,  New  York. 

Mrs.  John  Innes  Kane,  New  York. 

Mrs.  Edward  Walker,  Detroit. 

Mrs.  J.  J.  White,  Atlantic  City. 

Mrs.  Barker  Gummere,  Washington. 

Mme.  Ekengren  and  Miss  Helen  Patten  sent  a  sum  of 
money,  being  the  proceeds  of  a  concert  arranged  by  them. 

Villa  Transformed  Into  Warehouse 

Mr.  Jarves  converted  two  salons  of  his  Villa  Val  Fleuri 
into  receiving  and  storing  rooms,  engaged  a  secretary  and 
two  women  for  the  packing  and  re-sorting  of  suppHes,  and 
used  the  garage  for  opening  and  receiving  the  cases.     It 


130  War  Days  in  Brittany 

is  estimated  that  over  97,000  articles  have  been  thus  dis- 
tributed, not  to  mention  tobacco,  candies,  fruit,  cocoa, 
chocolate,  Liebig's  Extract,  Valentine's  Essence,  Benger's 
Food,  tetanus  serum,  etc. 

To  give  a  more  complete  idea  of  the  extent  of  the  work 
done,  it  is  only  necessary  to  say  that  6,393  beds  have  been 
installed  in  the  various  buildings  converted  into  hospitals. 

Besides  these  immediate  demands  for  medical  and  sur- 
gical supplies,  came  the  call  of  the  homeless,  the  refugees, 
prisoners  in  Germany  (Dinard  men) .  From  all  sides,  these 
appeals  poured  in  from  the  unfortunate  victims  of  the  war. 

Thousands  of  Belgians  sought  refuge  in  Brittany. 
Baronne  Raymond  de  Saint-Gilles,  at  Le  Fretay,  has  over 
4,000  dependent  on  her  for  assistance,  and  Abbe  Destroop- 
ers  at  Avranches,  and  Mile.  Powis  de  Tenbossche  at 
Rennes,  both  of  whom  have  over  3,000  Belgians  on  their 
refuge  lists,  all  have  been  supplied  with  great  quantities  of 
garments. 

The  convents  were  especially  deserving  of  assistance; 
many  throughout  Brittany  were  of  the  poorest  description. 
These  religious  women  found  themselves  face  to  face  with, 
for  them,  unparalleled  conditions,  and  were  occupied  in 
attending  Arabs,  Senagalais,  Turcos,  Bretons,  Chasseurs 
Alpins  and  Paris  "gamins." 

The  accommodations  were  poor  enough  and  the  medical 
and  surgical  supplies  utterly  inadequate,  for  they  simply 
did  not  exist. 

To  them,Mr.  Jarves  was  able  to  give  a  large  quantity  of 
necessary  articles,  including  a  hot-air  apparatus,  a  full  set 


Our  War  Work  131 

of  surgical  instruments,  clothing,  medicines,  comforts  and 
money.  The  supplies  from  America  have  been  divided 
with  the  conscientious  desire  to  see  American  generosity 
help  as  far  as  could  be. 

97,610  Articles  Distributed 

The  following  list  is  an  estimate  of  the  numbers  and  kind 
of  articles  distributed : 

Compresses  of  all  kinds 37,000 

Bandages  of  all  kinds 22,000 

Pairs  of  socks 4,290 

Shirts 2,095 

Articles  of  children's  clothing      ....  4,000 

Articles  of  men's  and  women's  clothing       .         .  2,500 

Pyjamas 375 

Miscellaneous  articles 24,500 

Cotton  wool  (pounds) 850 

Total        .        .      97,610 

About  six  hundred  surgical  instruments  have  been  dis- 
tributed to  various  hospitals  in  Brittany. 

Gifts  of  money  have  been  distributed  as  follows : 

November,  1914 — Five  thousand  francs  to  the  Oeuvre 
des  Beiges,  Dinard.  ■ 

November,  1914 — Ten  thousand  francs  to  M.  Crolard 
(Mayor  of  Dinard)  for  the  poor  of  Dinard  and  the  French 
and  Belgian  refugees. 

The  balance  was  spent  in  England  in  purchasing  pro- 
visions, surgical  instruments  and  dressings  for  the  hos- 
pitals. 

In  December,  1916,  Mr.  Deming  Jarves  gave  to  the 
town  of  Dinard  the  sum  of  5,800 fr., to  form  a  fund  called 


132  War  Days  in  Brittany 

the  "Deming  Jarves  Fund"  (which  was  increased  later  to 
10,000fr.),  which  the  mayor  is  distributing  to  the  poor, 
residing  permanently  in  Dinard  and  having  need  of  im- 
mediate assistance. 

All  automobile  expenses,  transport,  storage,  cartage, 
distribution  and  Custom  House  expenses  have  been  paid 
by  Mr.  Deming  Jarves.  These  expenses  are  estimated  at 
not  less  than  1 5,000  fr. 

The  work  still  continues,  although  for  the  last  year, 

through  the  courtesy  of  the  American  Relief  Clearing 

House,  the  cases  are  sent  through  free  of  charge  from 

Bordeaux. 

France's  Thanks 

On  July  8, 1915,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Deming  Jarves  were  noti- 
fied by  M.  JuUiard,  the  Prefet  of  Ille-et-Vilaine,  that  he 
would  call  on  them  on  July  11,  at  three  o'clock,  accom- 
panied by  M.  Lacouloumere,  Sous-Prefet  of  Redon;  M. 
Revilliot,  Sous-Prefet  of  Saint-Malo;  General  Grillot, 
commanding  the  district;  M.  Crolard,  Mayor  of  Dinard, 
**en  grande  tenue,"  to  thank  them  in  the  name  of  France 
for  their  generous  help  in  the  great  crisis  of  this  war. 


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AMERICANS  IN  BRITTANY 


AMERICANS  IN  BRITTANY 


When  the  Yankees  return  home  after  the  great  war  is 
over,  those  who  have  been  quartered  in  Brittany  will  carry 
back  a  vivid  impression  of  long  stretches  of  green  forests 
and  fields,  of  tumbling  green  waters,  of  gray-and-white 
skies  with  dashes  of  tender  blue,  of  glinting  sunshine  lying 
warm  on  blue  slate  roofs,  of  low  stone  villages  huddled 
about  quaint  church-towers,  and  of  granite  buildings  of 
unknown  antiquity  —  and  some  may  carry  home  recollec- 
tions of  yellow-  or  auburn-haired  girls,  rosy-cheeked, 
clad  in  heavy  black  peasant  costumes  and  white  muslin 
''coiffes." 

It  rains  often  in  this  west  country,  skies  hang  low,  and 
there  is  much  hazy  atmosphere  and  blue-wrapped  dis- 
tances, but  the  temperature  is  so  mild,  roses  bloom  all 
winter,  mimosa  spread  their  golden  sprays  over  southern 
walls.  The  hedgerows  and  uplands  are  aglow  early  in 
January  with  primroses  and  gorse,  all  shades  of  golden 
yellows,  cutting  sharp  against  green  backgrounds  and 
vapory  skies. 

The  air  is  mild  and  damp,  and  it  is  probably  due  to  this 
purity  of  atmosphere,  that  the  Breton  is  as  hardy  and  as 
vigorous  as  he  is,  for  their  cottages,  with  the  dirt  floors, 
walled-in  beds,  and  lack  of  cleanliness,  are  about  as  sani- 
tary as  in  the  days  of  Anne  of  Brittany. 

Since  1914  these  good  people  have  been  called  upon  to 
provide  hospitality  for  all  kinds  of  foreigners;  strangers 

[135  1 


136  JVar  Days  in  Brittany 

who,  in  ordinary  life,  had  never  even  heard  of  this  part  of 
the  world,  and  who  probably  never  had  any  desire  to  see 
it — but  Kaiser  Wilhelm  arranged  otherwise,  and  they 
poured  in  in  their  thousands.  Somehow  or  other,  food 
and  lodging  were  found  for  them,  and  they  became  tre- 
mendously at  home.     Some,  much  too  much  so! 

First  came  the  Belgians,  poor,  driven,  dazed  creatures, 
carrying  all  sorts  of  parcels  and  bundles,  footsore,  limping, 
weary  ;  fleeing  before  that  first  dreadful  on-rush  of 
Germans  in  August,  1914.  Everyone  worked  to  get  them 
food,  clothing  and  lodging;  but,  scattered  all  over  the 
province,  they  were  wretchedly  unhappy  crowds,  knowing 
no  language  but  Flemish  or  Walloon,  isolated  and  lost  in 
France,  and  with  their  families  in  Belgium.  English  and 
Americans  took  charge  of  them,  and,  by  tireless  generosity 
and  exertion,  provided  them  with  the  necessities  of  life. 

I  know  of  one  Belgian  hospital  at  St.  Lunaire,  which,  for 
the  last  four-and-a-half  years,  has  been  dependent  on  five 
English  girls,  who,  through  all  sorts  of  trouble,  complica- 
tions and  work  have  kept  it  going — and  going  competently 
and  well. 

From  England  they  obtained  the  necessary  surgical  and 
hospital  supplies,  but  often  and  often  they  had  to  dip  deep 
into  their  own  pockets — it  was  a  flimsy  summer  hotel,  in 
no  way  suited  to  a  hospital  service;  but,  nothing  daunted, 
they  stuck  at  it  courageously,  giving  time,  health,  and 
wealth,  never  relaxing  their  efforts,  or  becoming  dis- 
couraged— brave,  unselfish,  untiring  volunteers! 

Many  a  Belgian,  exiled,  wounded,  homesick,  has  a 


Americans  in  Brittany  137 

special  little  shrine  in  his  heart  for  the  Misses  de  Mont- 
morency and  Miss  Amscott. 

After  the  Belgian  invasion,  came  the  French  wounded. 
I  would  not  dare  say  how  many  thousands  have  passed 
through  the  Dinard  hospitals,  where  they  were  nursed  by 
French,  English,  Belgian  and  American  Red  Cross  ladies. 
For  years,  the  streets  were  full  of  bandaged,  limping 
creatures,  happy  to  recuperate  in  our  soft  climate.  While 
these  were  in  our  town,  we  were  suddenly  inundated  by 
hordes  of  Russians;  strong,  vigorous  young  men,  with  a 
charming  disregard  for  all  discipline,  and  an  ardent  de- 
termination to  do  exactly  as  they  chose.  When  remon- 
strated with,  they  just  laughed  and  said:  ''Kaput  czar, 
kaput  Russia — kaput  tout,"  and  that  is  all  there  was  to 
it.  They  weren't  going  to  fight  any  more,  or  obey  any- 
one. They  traveled  when  it  pleased  them,  getting  on  or 
off  of  trains.  Without  inquiring  about  their  destination, 
carefully  ignoring  all  formalities,  such  as  tickets,  time,  or 
overcrowding,  and  behaved  themselves  generally  as  if  law 
and  order  had  disappeared  with  the  czar.  Great,  strap- 
ping chaps  they  were,  too ;  in  clean,  well-brushed  uniforms 
and  fine  boots,  apparently  not  concerning  themselves  in 
the  least  as  to  the  war  or  the  future,  sauntering  about  our 
streets,  amusing  themselves  as  they  saw  fit,  and  finally  be- 
coming so  unbearable  that  a  few  were  hauled  up  and  shot 
by  the  authorities  at  St.  Malo,  and  the  rest  sent  off  some- 
where, at  the  unanimous  request  of  St.  Malo  and  Dinard. 

In  ordinary  times,  these  Belgians  and  Russians  would 
never  have  heard  of  Dinard,  and  been  perfectly  satisfied 


138  War  Days  in  Brittany 

not  to,  but  then  so  would  we  have  been,  had  William  the 
Kaiser  permitted  them  to  remain  at  home. 

Last  March,  the  third  invasion  took  place — twelve 
hundred  boys  and  girls  from  Nancy,  aged  four  to  twelve 
years.  They  were  quartered  at  the  Royal  Hospital  and 
at  St.  Lunaire,  and  the  American  Red  Cross  sent  down 
nurses  and  doctors  to  look  after  them.  They  needed 
everything — clothing,  boots,  medical  attendance  and  hy- 
giene— being  in  a  shocking  condition,  having  hidden  in 
cellars  for  months  during  the  bombardment  of  Nancy; 
their  faces  were  yellow  and  pinched,  their  bodies  un- 
healthy and  sickly,  their  morale  at  its  lowest  ebb. 

Mr.  Thomas  Ewing  Moore,  representative  of  the 
American  Red  Cross,  formed  a  committee  of  ladies,  with 
the  Marquise  de  Sigy  as  president,  who  tells  me  they  dis- 
tributed, in  four  months,  over  ten  thousand  garments, 
shoes,  boots,  hats,  underwear,  etc. 

After  the  Nancy  children  had  been  comfortably  in- 
stalled and  attended  to,  French  refugees  from  the  Aisne 
began  to  pour  in,  fleeing  before  the  German  offensive  of 
last  March.  Again  the  American  Red  Cross  came  to  their 
relief,  and  over  $100,000.00  was  spent  on  them — clothing, 
food,  medicines,  coal  were  purchased,  homes  found,  furni- 
ture bought — a  tremendous  work  all  over  Brittany. 

All  these  invasions  gave  a  great  deal  to  do,  no  one  could 
afford  to  be  idle,  and  I  must  say  the  call  was  nobly  re- 
sponded to.  A  branch  of  the  Surgical  Dressings  Service 
(American  Red  Cross)  was  installed  by  Mrs.  Austin,  an 
"ouvroir"  opened,  which  did  splendid  work  from  October, 


Americans  in  Brittany  139 

1917,  to  September,  1918.  300,000  dressings  were  sent  to 
Paris;  English,  French,  Belgian  and  American  ladies 
worked  all  day  and  every  day;  and,  thanks  to  President 
Mrs.  John  C.  Howard's  tact,  it  proved  to  be  a  most  har- 
monious circle.  From  accounts  one  hears  on  all  sides  of 
other  ''ouvroirs,"  harmony  is  not  precisely  their  most  con- 
spicuous feature. 

Elmer  Stetson  Harden  is  the  one  American  volunteer 
serving  in  our  Brittany  regiments.  He  won  the  highest 
praise  for  his  fine  courage  under  fire,  which  earned  him  the 
Croix  de  Guerre.  His  officers  and  companions  consider  it 
rather  splendid  of  him,  a  rich  and  independent  American, 
to  volunteer  as  a  simple  ''poilu,"  and  to  refuse  all  pro- 
motion, satisfied  to  remain  with  them  through  dangers  and 
discomforts,  sharing  their  everyday  life  out  of  love  for 
France.  It  is  the  more  praiseworthy,  as  he  is  beyond  the 
age  limit;  Medford,  Mass.,  may  well  be  proud  of  this  son 
of  hers.  He  has  been  wounded  twice.  After  months  of 
suffering  in  a  Dinard  hospital,  is  now  cheery  and  well.  I 
met  him  yesterday  at  a  luncheon  and  was  glad  to  see  such 
a  wholesome  American  in  horizon-blue. 

After  all  these  different  invasions — Belgian,  French, 
wounded,  children — ^you  can  imagine  we  looked  with  some 
misgiving  on  a  Yankee  one.  The  American  Y.  M.  C.  A. 
opened  in  August,  1,200  men  in  Dinard,  2,000  across 
the  bay  at  St.  Malo  and  Parame;  but  now,  after  three 
months,  I  can  frankly  say  they  are  welcome  everywhere. 

Well-behaved,  well-mannered,  cheery,  healthy,  young, 
they  come  like  a  fresh  breeze   from  the    sparkling 


140  JVar  Days  in  Brittany 

Atlantic,  bringing  hope,  courage  and  enthusiasm  in  their 
wake. 

It  is  so  delightful  for  us  war-weary  Dinardais  to  come  in 
contact  with  anything  so  vital,  and  vigorous,  that  we  open 
our  doors  to  them,  bidding  them  welcome,  with  patriotic 
fervor. 

All  the  Anglo-American  colony,  as  well  as  the  French 
aristocracy  at  Dinard,  have  entertained  them,  either  at 
luncheon  or  teas,  and  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  has  done  its  utmost 
to  make  their  short  vacation  a  happy  and  memorable  one. 
Trips  to  Mont  St.  Michel,  Dinan  and  Combourg  are  in- 
cluded in  their  week's  stay.  Vaudeville  performances, 
dances,  concerts,  everything  to  make  them  feel  at  home 
and  "comfy."  My  French  friends  are  much  impressed  by 
their  intelligence  and  manliness.  My  friend,  the  Countess 
de  Durfort,  receives  200  every  Friday  at  her  feudal  Castle 
of  Combourg,  and  often  tells  me  what  pleasure  it  gives  her 
to  entertain  "ces  braves  Americains." 

La  Baronne  de  Charette,  nee  Miss  Antoinette  Polk,  of 
Tennessee,  great-niece  of  President  Polk,  and  widow  of 
G6n6ral  de  Charette,  the  famous  leader  of  the  Papal 
Zouaves  in  the  war  of  1870,  has  opened  her  old  Chateau 
every  Wednesday  to  200  Yankees. 

Her  Brittany  home  lies  in  a  hollow  surrounded  by  gray- 
bearded  oaks,  near  the  river  Ranee.  It  is  full  of  histori- 
cal souvenirs  of  all  kinds.  Royalty  has  spent  many  happy 
days  beneath  its  high-peeked  roof;  parties  and  festivities 
of  all  sorts  taking  place  here. 

Wednesdays  have  always  been  the  reception  days  of  the 


Americans  in  Brittany  141 

General  and  Mme.  de  Charette,  since  1883.  Notabilities 
who  came  to  Brittany,  made  it  a  pleasure  as  well  as  a  duty 
to  pay  their  respects  to  the  venerable  hero  and  his  charm- 
ing American  wife;  they  enjoyed  a  truly  southern  hos- 
pitality, inspected  the  various  historical  souvenirs,  the 
flags,  the  banners,  the  presentation  swords  (gifts  of  de- 
voted admirers  all  over  France),  walked  in  the  beautiful 
park,  feasted  on  good  wine  and  good  cheer,  and  departed 
with  a  pleasant  recollection  of  all  the  charms  of  this  old- 
world  manor,  given  to  the  famous  general  by  his  ardent 
followers,  the  Papal  Zouaves. 

Madame  de  Charette  wanted  to  offer  the  same  hospitality 
to  her  American  compatriots  as  was  offered  to  European 
royalty  and  distinguished  foreigners.  So  every  Wednes- 
day her  doors  are  opened  to  200  Yanks. 

They  find  an  excellent  ''gouter,"  a  charming  hostess, 
surrounded  by  the  ladies  of  the  nobility  from  the  neighbor- 
hood, who  put  themselves  out  to  amuse  the  "doughboys." 

Music,  singing,  dancing,  fill  in  the  hours  from  3  to  8, 
but  what  they  seem  to  like  the  most  is  to  sit  in  the  half- 
light  in  a  circle,  before  the  great  granite  chimney-place, 
the  logs  burning  and  snapping,  casting  weird  shadows  over 
these  fighters  from  afar,  on  the  heavy  oak  beams  of  the 
"Salle  des  Zouaves,"  flitting  here  and  there  over  the  dark 
oak  furniture,  catching  a  sheen  of  light  from  steel  helmets, 
of  a  bit  of  color  from  some  pendant  war  flag.  They  listen 
to  the  old  southern  tales  and  the  history  of  the  general's 
battles,  or  tell,  themselves,  of  what  they  have  seen  or  done 
in  this  war  of  wars. 


142  War  Days  in  Brittany 

Among  the  French  and  Itahan  flags  is  one — a  poor, 
tattered,  faded  silk  American  one — cherished  reverently 
by  the  family;  for,  in  1862,  Mme.  de  Charette  (then  Miss 
Polk)  rode  on  horseback  by  a  black  night  to  warn  General 
Forrest  of  the  approach  of  the  Union  troops.  After  the 
victory,  General  Forrest  presented  this  trophy  to  the 
young  girl,  saying:  ''My  child,  thanks  to  you,  we  have 
won  the  battle;  to  you,  therefore,  I  give  the  flag." 

Mme.  de  Charette's  only  son,  the  Marquis  de  Charette, 
was  wounded  April  16,  1917,  being  the  only  man  in  his 
tank  to  escape  alive;  he  has  fighting  blood  in  his  veins,  for, 
besides  his  father's,  his  ancestors,  General  de  Charette 
fought  at  Yorktown  with  General  Lafayette — as  well  as 
General  Leonidas  Polk  of  the  Southern  army.  We  con- 
sider it  a  privilege  for  our  Yankee  boys  to  see  such  an  in- 
terior; our  own  entertainments  for  them  in  our  modern 
villas  at  Dinard  being  much  inferior  in  interest  and 
attractions,  but  it  is  a  great  pleasure  to  receive  them. 

Every  Saturday  a  certain  number — 20  to  25 — come  to 
our  home,  'Tal  Fleuri,"  and  we  give  them  American 
pumpkin-pie,  cornbread,  potato-chips,  cakes,  chocolate, 
etc.  Pretty  girls  dance  with  them,  we  sing  war  songs,  and 
old-fashioned  ones,  too,  and  although  each  Saturday 
brings  a  new  set,  my  husband  and  I  are  glad  to  be  able  to 
offer  to  these  ''boys  from  God's  country"  an  afternoon  in 
our  American  home. 

October,  1918. 


VICTORIOUS  BELLS  OF  FRANCE 


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Tnai/ntenianJ— 
\UT\ju)^  ecu \  que  7unx.6  olfe  ndorV) 


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VICTORIOUS  BELLS  OF 
FRANCE 

It  is  the  eleventh  of  November,  a  date  future  generations 
will  look  back  to  as  the  greatest  in  modern  history ;  a  date 
which  marks  the  end  of  the  most  brutal  and  aggressive 
war.  The  horrible  nightmare  is  over,  and  the  "superman" 
vanquished,  pray  God,  for  all  time. 

We  who  have  lived  through  these  long  tragic  years,  who 
have  seen  with  what  fortitude  and  patience  the  darkest 
hours  have  been  borne,  when  storm-clouds  blackened  the 
skies  and  hope  hid  her  face — we  tremble  with  longing  for 
Peace,  can  scarcely  believe  it  can  be  true.  The  hope  has 
dwelt  so  long  in  our  hearts,  the  realization  has  seemed  so 
impossible. 

All  the  morning  the  town  was  alive  with  rumors — a 
word,  a  suggestion,  a  guess,  all  light  as  a  zephir,  but  gain- 
ing stability  as  they  spread — until  people  crowding  in  the 
streets  with  radiant  faces  and  happy  eyes,  became  aware 
of  the  certitude  of  Victory  as  yet  unannounced: 

"Is  it  true  the  boches  are  beaten?" 

"Have  we  the  victory?" 

"Foch  has  signed  today." 

"The  Kaiser  has  fled." 

"The  Crown  Prince  is  killed." 

A  hundred  such-like  reports  were  tossed  about,  nothing 
definite  but  a  happy  expectancy  on  all  the  grinning  faces. 
I  met  the  mayor  at  11  o'clock. 

1145] 


146  War  Days  in  Brittany 

''Ah,  Ah,  Monsieur  le  Maire,  voici  la  Victoire;  What? 
(There  is  Victory?)" 

'But  non,  Madame,  not  yet,  it  is  not  official." 
'But  at  least  we  can  pavoise  (beflag)?" 
'Non,  non,  Madame,  pas  encore,  but — "  with  a  twink- 
ling eye,  "you  can  have  your  flags  ready." 

All  along  the  streets  are  little  groups  of  people  chatter- 
ing excitedly,  joined  constantly  by  new-comers;  itinerant 
newsmongers,  each  with  his  own  special  brand  of  rumor. 
At  the  Place  de  I'Eglise,  a  large  crowd  has  gathered,  wait- 
ing for  the  bells,  so  long  silent,  now  perhaps  to  ring  in  a 
new  era  for  humanity.  The  postmaster,  a  functionary  of 
importance  in  our  little  town,  is  gesticulating  and  laugh- 
ing with  the  commandant  de  place.  Peasants,  shop- 
keepers, doughboys,  Red  Cross  nurses,  Poilus  and  Belgian 
wounded,  priests,  children,  old  and  young,  are  all  crowd- 
ing, jostling,  each  with  perfect  good  humor. 

Flags  spring  forth  on  house-fronts,  little  fluttering  lines 
of  bunting  stretch  across  from  window  to  window,  flowers 
appear  in  buttonholes,  out  of  church-tower  windows  lean 
the  bell  ringers;  a  little  French  flag  has  been  hoisted  high 
on  the  tower,  the  first  in  four  years. 

"Will  the  great  news  never  come?" 

Presently  a  loud  clattering  of  sabots ;  the  schools  are  out, 
'round  the  corner  they  stream  at  full  speed,  twenty 
abreast,  little  chaps  from  eight  to  twelve,  their  pink  faces 
aglow,  their  capes  streaming  in  the  wind,  a  tricolor  grasped 
in  red  fists,  bobbing  in  front  line.  Dear  little  chaps,  each 
has  lost  someone — a  brother  or  a  father — one's  eyes  fill 


COMPTOIR  NATIONAL 

DESCOMPTE  DE  PARIS 


EMPRUNT 
NATIONAL 

1918 


-AjCiiSTE  LEKOJit  ~ 


(nAhoAKAHA/ 


ONSOUSCRIT  SANS  FRAIS  AU  SIEGE  SOCIAL.  1*,RUE  BERGERE.A  PARIS 
ET  DANS  TOUTES  LES  AGENCES  OU  BUREAUX  DE  QUARTIER. 


1...,.,...  JoiiPit  CHARLCS  .P«» 


Victorious  Bells  of  France  147 

with  tears  of  relief  of  what  they  have  escaped,  these  little 
citizens  of  the  future,  they  at  least  can  grow  to  the  fulness 
of  manhood  without  a  dreadful  menace  hanging  over 
them.     The  world  is  safe  for  them. 

The  clock  points  to  3.  Suddenly  a  great  peal  of  bells 
rings  out  on  the  sunny  November  air;  louder  and  louder 
the  sound  reverberates  over  the  autumn  trees  and  far  out 
to  sea,  loud  and  clear  and  joyous,  carrying  the  glorious 
news  over  land  and  water  to  the  hearts  of  the  waiting 
people. 

Ah!  ring,  bells  of  France!  Ring  out  over  all  this  beautiful 
martyred  land,  over  towns  and  villages,  over  country, 
river,  sea.  Messengers  of  God,  bringing  joy  and  hope. 
Ring  in  long,  swelling  notes,  full  of  harmony  and  Peace. 
Bring  to  all  who  listen  the  certitude  of  victory;  the 
knowledge  that  the  vast  sacrifices  have  not  been  in 
vain;  that  Peace  soon  will  spread  her  healing  breath 
over  this  sore-tried  nation.  As  the  carillons  ring,  a 
shout  bursts  out,  people  weep,  laugh,  embrace  each 
other.  They  sob  and  cheer  in  the  same  breath,  all  hearts 
united  in  one  over-whelming  wave  of  gratitude  and 
thanksgiving. 

Then  a  slow  booming  from  the  cannon  at  Saint- 
Malo  sounds  across  the  water — only  a  few  days  ago 
what  fears  it  would  have  caused — but  today,  thrice 
blessed  guns! 

The  doughboys  raise  a  terrific  shouting;  some  whistle, 
shriek,  cat-call;  tin  pans  are  banged  as  cymbals;  a  pro- 
cession is  formed,  French  and  Belgians  with  their  flags  in 


1 48  PVar  Days  in  Brittany 

front,  singing  the  ''Marseillaise,"  then  the  Yanks,  cheering 
and  dancing  arm  in  arm,  thirty  abreast,  zigzaging  down 
the  boulevard.  I  ran  out  with  some  thirty  small  national 
flags,  and  in  a  second  they  were  whipped  out  of  my 
arms  and  went  careering  away  over  the  heads  of  the 
shouting  men. 

The  procession  swept  on,  catching  up  bystanders; 
infirmieres  had  flags  thrust  at  them, -and  joined  the  ranks, 
their  white  veils  and  dresses  gleaming  ahead;  some  of 
the  Americans  picked  up  the  tiny  children,  carrying  them 
shoulder  high,  the  kiddies  clutching  them  in  a  strangle- 
hold, their  necks  craning  to  see  their  mothers  and  sisters 
running  along  the  sidewalk  near  them. 

The  crowd  swings  on  to  visit  the  hospitals,  to  salute 
their  wounded  comrades,  to  the  mairie,  to  the  com- 
mandant de  place,  singing  ''Over  There,"  the  "Star- 
Spangled  Banner,"  the  "Marseillaise,"  and  "la  Braban- 
conne."  There  was  no  bed  that  day  for  the  wounded, 
operation  or  no  operation  they  hung  out  of  the  windows 
and  balconies,  to  the  horror  of  their  nurses,  waving 
handkerchiefs,  towels,  pillow-slips,  slippers — anything 
that  came  to  hand.  One  boy,  with  the  Croix  de  Guerre 
and  four  other  medals,  hobbled  out  on  the  terrace,  waved 
a  crutch,  sang  the  first  verse  of  the  "Marseillaise,"  and 
then  fainted  dead  away.  Another  hung  over  a  balcony 
cheering  himself  hoarse,  when  remonstrated  with  and 
told  to  remember  his  operation  of  two  days  ago,  de- 
clared he  didn't  care  if  he  had  to  spend  six  more 
weeks  in  bed,  he  had  been  wounded  five  times  for  his 


Victorious  Bells  of  France  149 

country's  good,  and  now  he  would  have  one  for  his  own 
pleasure. 

All  the  afternoon,  little  bands  marched  up  and  down, 
a  group  of  Belgians  with  an  accordion,  the  player  with 
an  arm  in  a  sling  clutching  it  somehow,  playing  the 
"Brabanconne."  Yanks  decked  out  in  paper  caps  and 
tricolor  ribbons,  arm  in  arm  with  singing  girls,  sky-larking 
about  the  town.  All  the  week,  festivities  have  been  in 
full  swing,  in  the  cafes,  the  hotels,  the  American  Y.  M.C.  A. 
— entertainments,  flags,  cheering,  songs,  music,  games — 
the  world  is  alive  again,  and  fear,  death,  horror  banished. 

So  it  is  all  over  France.  Paris  is  delirious  with  joy. 
I  quote  from  a  letter  from  a  French  officer: 

"The  enthusiasm  is  indescribable !  Sammies,  Tommies, 
Poilus,  Midinettes,  dance  the  farandele  in  the  streets, 
singing.  More  serious  people  content  themselves  with 
round  dances  on  the  sidewalks;  the  girls  have  their 
hair  tied  with  tricolor  ribbons,  the  men  wear  colored  paper 
caps.  Actresses  are  singing  on  the  street  corners,  waving 
flags.  Add  to  this  the  firing  of  cannon  and  bombs  as 
if  we  were  back  in  the  evil  days  of  avians  last  spring. 
Your  compatriots,  colder  and  more  phlegmatic,  content 
themselves  with  firing  their  revolvers  in  the  air.  I  hope 
they  withdrew  the  bullets.  In  every  street  are  corteges 
with  flags,  drums,  trumpets.  'Marseillaise'  sang,  shouted, 
whistled.  Some  drag  the  German  cannons  surmounted 
by  poilus,  from  the  Place  de  la  Concorde;  on  all  sides 
a  sea  of  heads;  impossible  to  cross  the  Avenue  de  la 
Opera,  but  every  one  is  'bon-enfant,'  and  there  have 
been  no  fights. 

"On  the  boulevards  are  great  'Transparents'  with  Foch, 
Wilson  and  Clemenceau's  portraits.    The  crowd  stands 


150  War  Days  in  Brittany 

all  day  and  all  night  acclaiming  them.  Clemenceau 
himself  ventured  out  on  the  boulevards,  and  only 
escaped  suffocation  from  his  too  ardent  admirers,  by 
rushing  into  the  Grand  Hotel  and  having  the  partes 
cocheres  closed." 

As  soon  as  the  news  of  the  signing  of  the  armistice 
was  known  in  ofl&cial  circles  yesterday  morning,  the 
Paris  Municipal  Council  sent  out,  to  be  posted  all  over 
the  city,  a  stirring  appeal  to  the  population  to  celebrate 
the  greatest  victory  ever  won.  The  poster  read  as 
follows : 

"Inhabitants  OF  Paris" 

"Victory!  Triumphant  Victory!  On  all  fronts  the  defeated 
enemy  has  laid  down  his  arms!  Blood  will  cease  to  flow! 

"Let  Paris  throw  off  the  noble  reserve  for  which  she  has  been 
admired  by  the  whole  world. 

"Let  us  give  free  course  to  our  joy  and  enthusiasm  and  hold 
back  our  tears. 

"To  show  our  infinite  gratitude  to  our  magnificent  soldiers 
and  their  incomparable  leaders,  let  us  decorate  all  our  houses 
with  the  French  colors  and  those  of  our  dear  allies. 

"Our  dead  may  rest  in  peace.  The  sublime  sacrifice  they  have 
made  of  their  lives  to  the  future  of  the  race  and  the  salvation  of 
France  will  not  be  in  vain. 

"For  them,  as  for  us  'the  day  of  glory  has  arrived.' 

"Vive  la  Republique! 

"Vive  la  France  immortelle! 

"For  the  Municipal  Council, 

"Adrien  Mithouard,  President. 

"Chausse,  Chassaigne-Goyon,  Adolphe  Cherioux,  Henri 
RousELLE,    Vice-Presidents; 

"Georges  Pointel,  Le  Corbeiller,  Lemarchand,  Fiancette, 
Secretaries; 

"Andre  Gent,  Syndic." 


Victorious  Bells  of  France  151 

News  Flashed  Throughout  France 
While  this  appeal  was  being  drawn  up,  the  magnificent 
news  was  flashed  by  telephone  to  the  Prefects  throughout 
France  by  M.  Pams,  Minister  of  the  Interior,  with  the 
following  orders: 

"Put  out  flags  immediately.  Illuminate  all  public  buildings 
this  evening.  Have  all  bells  ring  out  in  full  peal,  and  arrange 
with  the  military  authorities  to  have  guns  fired,  in  order  that  the 
people  may  know  of  the  signing  of  the  armistice. 

''Dinard,  November  Uth,  1918." 


\\. 


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